


All the Effects of Intoxication

by Cinaed



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Canon Era, Case Fic, Complete, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, M/M, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, References to Suicide, Self-Harm, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-13
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-14 20:31:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 66,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/841078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Instead of committing suicide, Javert goes on a three-day bender. When Valjean finds him, Javert assumes he's a hallucination. Things proceed awkwardly from there. </p><p>--</p><p>  <em>“Where are you going?” the hallucination asked, which was foolish. Surely his brain knew what Javert planned.</em> </p><p>  <em>“To the nearest--” Javert paused, looked at the recently vacated wine-ship, and amended what he had been about to say. “To the next wine-shop. Obviously I am not drunk enough if you are here.”</em></p><p>  <em>The apparition got to its feet with a wince, as though his mind had ridiculously conjured aches and pains with which to torment Valjean’s specter. “Javert, your words make no sense,” it said, and Javert laughed again.</em></p><p>  <em>“I am making perfect sense.” He touched his pocket where he kept his money, frowned. “I hope you are only a drink or two from going away. I do not know how much more beer I can afford.”</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Song of the Drunkard

**Author's Note:**

> This story is currently being filled on the Les Mis kinkmeme for the prompt:
> 
> "Javert/Valjean. Instead of committing suicide Javert goes on a three-day bender. When Valjean finds him, Javert assumes he's a hallucination. Cue hurt/comfort and slurred confessions and a happy ending once everyone has sobered up."
> 
> The title comes from the Oscar Wilde quotation, “I have made an important discovery... that alcohol, taken in sufficient quantities, produces all the effect of intoxication.”
> 
> Thanks go out to the lesmiseres folks, who have encouraged me with the story and helped me when I've been stuck.
> 
> alegria888 on Tumblr has drawn a beautiful illustration for chapter two, which can be found [**here**](http://alegria888.tumblr.com/post/54923011869/all-the-effects-of-intoxication-for-cinaed).

“Then wine held this and wine held that  
until I became wine's tool--  
what a fool!”

- _Song of the Drunkard_ by Rainer Maria Rilke

 

* * *

 

Javert raised his glass to his lips. It took a moment to realize that the glass was empty, but when he did, he studied it in puzzled, mute betrayal, as he had the last three times such a perfidy had occurred.  “Another,” he said, or tried to. His numb lips refused to shape the word. He made a vague gesture with the glass; surely that would carry across his meaning.

“Not until I see another fifteen sous,” said someone above him. “And then you’ll be on your way, monsieur. If you want to drink yourself to death, you should do it in the privacy of your own house.” Javert made an effort to focus his gaze, which had acquired the unfortunate habit of turning everything not directly before him into smudges of color. With some difficulty he recognized the wine-shop’s owner.

Javert didn't respond to the latter part of the man’s statement, focusing instead on the part that would ensure him another drink. He fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat. After a moment’s effort, he unearthed the demanded payment with a sound of satisfaction. The sous disappeared, and in their place sat another glass of beer.

He gulped the beer down, not tasting it. No, tasting the alcohol was not the point. Let the alcohol instead destroy the thoughts he had fled from that night upon the parapet. Have it turn his teeming brain blank, that he might find some peace in oblivion.

When the glass was empty, Javert drew himself upright. The movement was careful, for over the course of the past few days he had learned how treacherous the ground turned once a man had drunk his weight in alcohol. He gripped the back of his chair for a moment, until he felt less like a sailor stepping foot upon land for the first time in months.

Then he moved towards the door, trying to calculate the distance to the next wine-shop and the likelihood of that owner taking one look at him and throwing him back onto the street. He almost shook his head before he thought better of the gesture. “There is always another wine-shop, so long as you have the coin,” he muttered under his breath, and barked out a laugh at the witticism.

The loud, rough sound drew curious looks; he ignored them, stepping outside and squinting against the too-bright sun. He had long since lost track of time, but it must have been mid-afternoon at least. The heat of the June sun struck him like a blow. His exposed skin prickled from the warmth. For the first time he regretted the loss of his hat, left behind at the second or third wine-shop, and his cravat, discarded at the fifth.

His vision swam from heat and drink. Shadows turned fanciful, seeming to leap up from where they had been passively following their owners and walk on their own, dark blurs of movement that made Javert’s head ache. When he closed his eyes, the sun turned the back of his eyelids red. He opened his eyes. Somehow he had gone from standing outside the wine-shop to being half-seated, half-slumped against a stone post. He eyed his legs pensively, for his feet were in the street. He should probably move them if he didn’t wish to be trampled by a carriage, but somehow he couldn't quite convince his legs to move. His boots twitched briefly, but that was all.

He was aware of passerby, but their forms wavered like mirages; he was uncertain which were real and which the result of one too many glasses of beer. It didn’t matter, really. None of the passerby dared to approach him, and he was left in relative peace with his indignity. Javert decided to close his eyes. He would rest until he felt better prepared to move on, or until the wine-shop owner came out and ordered him gone, whichever happened first. Then he would find the next wine-shop.

A minute or perhaps an hour later, a voice that couldn't be real called his name.  

Javert opened his eyes and looked up at a hallucination, which wavered for a moment until it solidified into a familiar visage. His mind remembered Valjean’s features well: the deep creases at the corners of his eyes, the startling whiteness of his beard, the way his mouth hung slightly open when he was surprised. The hallucination seemed almost real as he gawked at Javert.

Javert’s lips parted in a smile. He laughed his noiseless laugh. “A fair revenge,” he remarked, for obviously this was his brain’s way of reciprocating all the abuse he had heaped upon it in the past few days.

The hallucination’s mouth snapped shut and then pursed; its expression turned from astonishment to concern. “Javert,” it repeated, sounding half-hesitant. “Are you ill?”

“Ill?” Javert said, and laughed again. He lifted a hand and flapped it at the apparition. It took him a moment to convince his lips and tongue to work together to form intelligible speech. “No, no, that won't do at all. You will have to do better than that as a delusion. I must smell of beer. He is many things, but he is not un-- he is not--” He paused and considered his chances of successfully pronouncing the word ‘unobservant.’ He thought it unlikely. “He would notice,” he finished, and closed his eyes. The hallucination was too vivid; the white of its hair and the fine details of the way its brow had furrowed and its nostrils flared made Javert’s head ache.

His brain countered with a surprising sally. A puff of wind that could almost have been mistaken for a man’s breath touched his face, and then the hallucination said, very close, as though it crouched next to Javert now, “Javert, look at me. What has happened to you?”

When Javert opened his eyes, the apparition was indeed kneeling beside him, apparently unconcerned with dirtying its workman’s clothes in the dirt and grime of the sidewalk. Then again, why would a hallucination care about filth that couldn't touch it? Javert tried to straighten but his spine refused to obey. His shoulders remained slumped. It was all he could do to keep his chin from lowering back to his chest.

“It is perfectly obvious,” he muttered a little crossly.

Already the fleeting humor at his mind’s punishment was shifting to frustration. He'd sought to drown all thoughts and memories of Valjean in beer. Instead he seemed to have summoned Valjean’s specter. He thought of the money he had spent over the past few days, all a waste if this was the result of his efforts.

Well, he would punish his brain for its transgressions. He forced himself to sit straighter, despite the heavy weight of his head and how the ground seemed to undulate beneath him like a wave. He pressed the palms of his hands onto the cobblestone and leveraged himself upright using the post for support. He ignored the hand that the apparition offered him.  

“Where are you going?” the hallucination asked, which was foolish. Surely his brain knew what Javert planned.

“To the nearest--” Javert paused, looked at the recently vacated wine-ship, and amended what he had been about to say. “To the next wine-shop. Obviously I am not drunk enough if you are here.”

The apparition got to its feet with a wince, as though his mind had ridiculously conjured aches and pains with which to torment Valjean’s specter. “Javert, your words make no sense,” it said, and Javert laughed again.

“I am making perfect sense.” He touched his pocket where he kept his money and frowned. “I hope you are only a drink or two from going away. I don't know how much more beer I can afford.”

The hallucination’s expression shifted to mulishness. “You have drunk enough for the day.” It paused, and Javert had the impression that it was resisting the urge to wrinkle its nose. “I think you have drunk enough for the _year_ ,” was muttered, not quite under the specter’s breath. Its tone was impossible to decipher; Javert could not tell if concern or exasperation colored the words.

Regardless the sentiment, Javert ignored it and turned on heel. There would be a wine-shop in any direction he went; there seemed to be nearly as many wine-shops as there were cafes in Paris. He ignored how he nearly tripped over his own feet as he walked away from his hallucination. He grimly gathered up the remnants of his dignity and kept walking.

He wasn't entirely surprised when the apparition fell into step behind him like an unwanted second shadow. At least the hallucination was silent. Javert half-closed his eyes in concentration, putting one careful foot in front of the other. He’d created a mental map of Paris over the years, memorized the various streets and shortcuts as well as all the important places and landmarks where one could understand best the mood of the city. For Parisians, that mostly meant the salons and the wine-shops.  

At the moment, however, his mind’s map was useless, blurred as though the alcohol he’d consumed over the past few days had saturated it. The names of the streets smeared like dampened ink, the locations of the wine-shops smudged beyond recognition. He paused, cursing quietly in frustration. He supposed that he could simply wander the streets until he found a wine-shop, but already his mouth was dry. He could feel the beginnings of a headache, warning him of his impending sobriety. He raised his hand to rub at his forehead and swore again, louder. He needed another drink.

“Javert,” the apparition said, almost gently. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Slept or drank myself unconscious?” Javert countered sourly. Then he shrugged. “I do not remember. It is of no consequence.”

The apparition moved to match pace with him, the better to fix a determined look upon Javert and purse its lips at him. Javert hadn't realized that his mind would invoke a Valjean that seemed less like a strange blend of the dangerous convict and the saintly mayor and more like a scolding nursemaid. “It  _is_  of consequence,” said the hallucination. “You need to sleep and get something other than alcohol in you. Tell me your address. We shall get you a decent meal.”   
  
“This is getting foolish,” Javert muttered under his breath. Must the specter persist in pretending that it did not know his innermost thoughts when in fact it  _was_  his innermost thoughts?   
  
It wasn't until he turned left instead of right at the end of the street that he realized he was obeying his mind’s demand. Well, somewhat. He might not have answered the hallucination aloud, but he was headed in the direction of his apartment. Well, he mused, doubtless the porter would have some wine, drunkard that he was. That would have to do for the time being.   
  
“Javert,” the hallucination said again, and was firmly ignored.

Though it was around mid-afternoon, Javert found the porter unconscious at his post. The snoring man clutched at a wine jug that was hopefully not yet empty. Javert saw no sign of the portress; either she was upstairs or she had stormed off in a rage to her sister's, vowing yet again not to return until her husband quit drinking. It was the matter of a few seconds to pluck the jug from the man's grasp and weigh it. Much to his relief, it felt half-full. Javert wiped the mouth of the jug with his handkerchief and then brought it to his lips even as the hallucination made a sound of protest.

The wine was warm and cloyingly sweet. Javert grimaced as he gulped down a few mouthfuls. Still, wine was wine. Already he felt the tension in his head begin to ease, his half-returned sobriety beginning its retreat.

He made to raise the jug to his lips again and frowned at his mind's rebellion, for a firm hand seized hold of his wrist and stilled the gesture. His mind had gone so far as to give Valjean's specter calluses on its hands, its fingers rough against Javert's skin. The fine detail made Javert grit his teeth and vow viciously to drown his brain in even more spirits.

"I didn't follow you here to watch you drink more," the hallucination sniped at him. It had remained silent during their walk, showing its concern in worried glances and a furrowed brow. Now something like exasperation turned its voice harsh. "Where is the kitchen? You need food and rest, not more alcohol."

"I _need_ you to let me be," Javert said, and tried in vain to escape its grasp. He was glad that the porter was unconscious. Javert must have made a fine sight, fighting with thin air to drink again from the wine jug. He made a face when his mind didn't relent. Instead the specter glowered at him and only tightened its grip upon his wrist. "Give over. I am not hungry." His stomach roiled, his belly pinching at him for the lie, but he persisted. "I am thirsty, that's all." 

The hallucination's expression darkened. In the next instant its free hand ripped the wine jug from Javert's hand and all but flung it back upon the porter's lap. The porter snorted but didn't wake.

"If you are thirsty, you will have water," the apparition said coolly and then dragged Javert forward, further into the house. Javert dug in his heels, but his mind remembered too well Valjean's strength; it was like being dragged by a bull. "Where is the kitchen?" it demanded, but it was already turning towards the correct door, shoving it open and marching inside before Javert could answer. 

The kitchen was empty. Somehow Javert found himself seated at the table, the hallucination's hands pressing down upon his shoulders and holding him there. He blinked, and cursed his mind again for its attention to detail. The specter's face was too close to his. There was no way to escape the obvious concern and frustration in those dark eyes, or to ignore the tension that tightened the hallucination's jaw so that a muscle jumped there every few seconds. Javert could have even counted each individual eyelash if he'd had the inclination.

"You are going to eat. Then you will show me your room and you are going to sleep. And then we are going to discuss why you seem so determined to drink yourself to death, to, to drown yourself in wine," said the apparition, releasing him even as Javert snorted.

His head ached as though a vise had clamped around his skull; he pressed his hand to his forehead, but the tension remained, a dull throbbing pain branching down his neck. Exhaustion pressed down upon him. How long would his mind persist in this delusion? Until he was sober once more, he supposed. Or perhaps all that alcohol had finally tipped the scales and turned him mad, and Valjean's specter was a permanent delusion.

He shuddered a little at the thought. "Enough," he said. "I grow weary of this." There was no bite to his voice, only a certain tiredness that turned his voice ragged and bleak even to his own ears. "You know as well as I that I have decided not to kill myself. Stop being so dramatic."

"Decided not-- then you've thought of--" The grip returned to his shoulders and tightened almost to the point of pain.

"You say I mean to drown myself in wine. A poetic turn of phrase, but I'd meant to drown myself in earnest," Javert said almost dreamily. At that moment, with his head aching and the hallucination of the man who tormented him still clutching at him, he thought of the Seine with a certain wistfulness, like one would a missed opportunity. He rested his head in his hands. "It would have been a tidy thing. And I doubt I would have wasted the government's money with a burial. Very few who disappear into the Seine are found again."

"But why--" The hallucination was faltering now. Perhaps it was weakening with the onset of sobriety, though its grip was still strong upon Javert's shoulders. Javert didn't bother to look up to see if his guess was correct.

"You know why."

"No, I," said the apparition. Its hands trembled. "I do not. You've always been a righteous man. To take your own life--"

"A righteous man," Javert said, and laughed. It wasn't his noiseless laugh, or the terrible laugh that made wretches tremble. It was a low broken sound that scraped its way out of Javert's throat and wrenched itself from deep in his stomach. "So I thought myself, once."

"What changed your mind?"

Javert had closed his eyes. Now he opened them. The apparition seemed even closer than before; if Javert concentrated, he could almost convince himself that he felt its breath upon his face. The specter watched him with a queer, stricken expression, its mouth pinched at the corners, its eyes at once both sorrowful and searching.

"What made me realize I was not so righteous? Or why did I not kill myself?"

The unhappy look deepened. "Both."

There was a sour taste in Javert's mouth. He ran his tongue over his lips, trying to dispel the taste, but only another drink would do, and the porter's wine jug might as well have been on the moon for all the good it would do him currently. He cleared his throat. "For the former, that is simple enough. I betrayed my position as an inspector, ignored what I knew to be my duty. I acted out of personal motives to protect a fugitive." Another broken laugh escaped him. "I set myself above the law. How can I call myself righteous?"

"You helped to save a young man's life," the specter objected.

Javert would have made a dismissive gesture, but the hallucination still held him fast. "That insurgent? He is dead. Besides, he wasn't the one I meant. You know that as well as I."

Something shifted in the apparition's face and turned its expression opaque. "Me? I would have gone with you willingly. I gave you my address and my false name, I--"

" _I could not arrest you_!"

The admission was almost a roar, and it made the specter flinch.

Javert found he no longer cared that it was Valjean's specter rather than the man himself. If it was his own mind he was raging against, then so be it. It was his mind's fault for keeping him from the beer, which would have left his brain blank like a slate upon which all had been wiped clean, would have kept at bay the thoughts that troubled him. "I could not arrest you," he said again, quieter. "Was that not made clear when I departed from the Rue de l'Homme Arme? To arrest you would have been--" He faltered and cursed his impending sobriety, for all the unlooked-for truths he had found upon that parapet were returning to overwhelm him, to make him tremble and wish for the dark waters of the Seine. He bowed his head once more. "It would have been an injustice," he said, lowly. "Not in the eyes of men, but of...but of God."

This was said with some difficulty. Javert felt embarrassed, as he had upon the parapet when thinking of that divine superior, of whom he had never truly contemplated until Valjean had rescued him from certain death at the barricades and set his mind asunder. That God was merciful; that a man such as Jean Valjean, once fallen, could redeem himself and be sublime; that he, Javert, could learn after fifty-two years of life that he had been wrong and that there was something more important than duty-- the ideas unsettled him once more, as they had haunted him until he had downed that fourth or fifth glass of beer.

"Enough," he said, almost plaintively. "Let me have a drink. I would think no more on this."

"You haven't finished," said Valjean's specter, strangely pitiless. Surely the real Valjean would not have pressed for more when it was obvious the words hurt Javert to say. "Explain why you did not-- why it is that you claim you have decided to live when you are killing yourself through drink."

"Cowardice," said Javert. The hallucination gave a terrific start and released him, blinking. Javert almost smiled at its retreat. "I had committed a most grievous act here on Earth. I had disrupted order and ignored my duty. That merited punishment, but to turn myself over to the police would mean you might be found, so I couldn't do that. Where could I look for discipline, if not by the police? The hereafter seemed my only option. I remembered that suicide is a sin, and I thought to myself, good, that is well. It is only sensible to turn violence upon myself and be justly punished after death." He paused. His mouth was dry. For the first time he noticed a water jug on the table. Almost sullenly he took it and drank until his tongue no longer stuck to the roof of his mouth. He ignored the pressure of the specter's gaze upon him. "But then I thought, Valjean, a dangerous man turned saint, had had me in his power. He could have killed me, it would have been just, but instead he saved me and set me at liberty. If a mortal man can offer me mercy despite how I wronged him in the past, what can I expect from God?"

A tremor passed through him. Javert dropped his face into his hands. He concluded, with another broken laugh half-strangling him, "I couldn't drown myself, not when there was a chance I might be met with mercy and forgiveness. But I couldn't bear my own thoughts any longer. Alcohol seemed the simplest means to silence them."

Valjean's specter said nothing.

Javert left his head in his hands, for it seemed too much effort to lift it. For a few seconds he indulged in the foolish hope that his words had banished the hallucination back into the recesses of his mind. Perhaps he could even be able to seek out the porter's wine jug once more. After a moment, however, something nudged at one of his elbows where it was propped upon the tabletop. When he forced himself to raise his heavy head, he found that his mind had conjured a small meal of bread and jam. He stared at it, uncomprehending. Then he laughed, a sharp, incredulous sound. "What good is this to me?"

"You need to eat," said the apparition, though the words were slow and hesitant. "You say you don't want to die, but if you do not eat, you.... You must eat."

Javert was too tired to argue. He stared for another second at the bread, wondering if it would dissolve on his tongue if he tried to eat it. He was about to rise to his feet and gather up actual food from the cupboard when the door to the kitchen opened and the portress bustled in, carrying a basket full of groceries.

Madame Bonnet gave a terrific start at the sight of him, nearly dropping her basket. "Inspector Javert!" He knew that he must look a sight, his hat and cravat gone, his hair having not seen a comb in days, the very image of disarray, but that didn't explain why she stared at him as one would a ghost. "Inspector Javert, wherever have you been? Monsieur Chabouillet was here just this morning. He said you sent some strange letter to the Prefect and then vanished off the face of the earth! He seemed quite worried that something terrible had happened to you."

Before Javert could even begin to wrack his brain for a proper answer or to remark that Chabouillet could have found him if he'd only searched the wine-shops, Madame Bonnet's gaze moved away from him. Her expression hardened into a polite, wary look. "Good day, monsieur," she said cautiously.

She was, Javert realized, looking at the hallucination.

His blood froze in his veins. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. The wine fumes that had slowed and muddled his thoughts were banished by sheer, horrified comprehension. One hand reached out, fumbling for the plate, and felt the reality of it beneath his trembling fingers. He raised his gaze to Valjean even as Valjean took off his workman's cap and bowed politely to the portress.

"You see him," escaped Javert's lips, so faint that it was a wonder Madame Bonnet heard him.

She turned a quizzical look upon Javert. "Of course I do, monsieur. My eyes work as well as yours." She might have said more, but Javert's laughter stilled her tongue.

The laughter rose up from the pit of his stomach, a harsh and terrible sound. If it hurt his ears and made his heart pound strangely, it seemed even worse for the others in the room. Madame Bonnet flinched and drew back from him. Valjean's face paled, the lines of strain deepening on his face.

"You see him, of course you see him," Javert gasped out at last. "I should have known even my mind would not be so cruel to-- get out." It had been horror, first, that had banished the last vestiges of drunkenness. Horror, and then a dozen emotions, all terrible, but soon fury overwhelmed all other sentiment. He thought of everything he had admitted to Valjean, of what Valjean must have thought as Javert had spoken on suicide and his fear of God's mercy. He saw red. His hands clenched into fists. " _Get out_."

Valjean made no movement save for the minute tightening of his lips.

Javert tried to leap to his feet and lunge across the table, determined to seize Valjean by the throat. If Valjean would not go, then Javert would drag him to the front door and throw him onto the street. Surely this rage would give him the power he needed to overwhelm even Valjean's strength. He was almost upright when the room seemed to spin around him and grow dark, a sudden eclipse, Madame Bonnet's cry of alarm too loud in his ears.

When he opened his eyes, uncertain when he had closed them, he found himself in bed, Madame Bonnet peering anxiously at him.  

For a moment he wondered at Madame Bonnet's strange expression. Then the memories returned, not in a slow trickle, but a sudden flood that made his head pound and his stomach twist unpleasantly. He closed his eyes and groaned softly, in both pain and despair. How was it that of all the streets in Paris, Valjean had happened down that one at that particular moment? It seemed absurdly coincidental. Then again, perhaps this was his punishment. Perhaps God had decided to give him Hell on earth rather than in the afterlife, and Valjean was here to remind Javert of his failings.

Javert started to sit up. He stared around the room in search of Valjean, but Valjean was nowhere to be seen. He paused when Madame Bonnet said, wringing her hands, "Inspector, please stay still! Monsieur Fauchelevent has gone to fetch the doctor."

"A doctor?" Javert said. He settled back against his pillow and frowned. "I don't need one." His mouth was even drier than before. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and caught upon the back of his teeth.

Madame Bonnet's expression was dubious. "Don't need one? Inspector, you collapsed in my kitchen and Monsieur Fauchelevent had to carry you to your bed!" she said, exasperation replacing some of her earlier concern. More gently, she added, "Monsieur Fauchelevent explained how you were captured by the-- by the troublemakers at one of the barricades and injured."

Her gaze flickered and came to rest somewhere further down the bed. When he followed her gaze, he saw that someone, probably Valjean, had rolled up his sleeves and exposed the rope burns on his wrists. They hadn't bothered him in days, the lesser pain first superseded by the greater agony of his mind and then later dulled by alcohol. Now as he looked at the reddened skin and blisters, some of which had burst from lack of attention, his wrists and throat began to throb.

"Oh, yes," Javert muttered with a twist of his lips. "I suppose those should be tended to." He coughed, his throat tight, and Madame Bonnet wordlessly offered him the water jug. He drank, his injuries throbbing all the more for the gesture, but at least his mouth no longer felt like a desert. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, monsieur. Should I send a note to Monsieur Chabouillet? He seemed very worried--"

"No." Javert was unable to repress a shudder at the suggestion. He didn't want to see the other man who thought so highly of him, didn't want to see pity and disappointment on Chabouillet's face when he realized that Javert's "strange letter" had been his resignation. "No, I do not-- if anyone from the police comes, send him away."

Madame Bonnet pursed her lips and said nothing. She made a small movement of her head that Javert chose to interpret as a nod of agreement. "Drink some more water, monsieur," she said after a moment, and Javert obeyed.

The sound of footsteps in the hallway made him tense. His breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding queerly in his ears; he did not want to see Valjean again, did not want him to look at Javert's injuries and frown as though it pained him to see Javert suffer, did not want--

The door opened, and Valjean and a stranger came in.

"Monsieur le docteur, I assume," Javert said, and bared his teeth in a smile. He did not look at Valjean.

"Monsieur inspector," said the doctor briskly, moving to the side of the bed. He set his satchel down upon the bedside table. "Are there any other injuries besides those to your wrists and throat?"

"No," Javert said. At the doctor's implacable look, he said, irritated, " _No_. They tied me up, that's all. They were too busy with the National Guard to do anything more." He leaned back against the headrest. He endured the doctor's hands upon his wrists and his throat, suppressing a hiss of pain as the man probed at one of the burst blisters.

Javert didn't let himself think of Valjean, who stood near the doorway, watching, and thankfully Valjean did not speak, not even when the doctor stepped back and said, "You should have seen to these much sooner, monsieur. There is infection in a few of the blisters, and your humors are greatly disturbed."

Javert did not curse, though he would have liked to. "In other words, you need to use a needle as well as bleed me," he said flatly. The doctor nodded, and Javert sighed. "Very well, if you say it must be done."

"Let me prepare the laudanum first," the doctor said, and then turned to Madame Bonnet. "Could you heat some water? I will need to heat the needle to draw out the infection."

Paling, she nodded and backed hastily from the room.

"Laudanum," Javert said, thinking of the last time he had had to take laudanum. A fugitive had landed a lucky swing of his knife upon his arm. The prescribed laudanum hadn't made him euphoric as it did many; instead his thoughts had slowed and he had slept as much as a cat in the following days. He remembered that laudanum was quite easy to get one's hands on, though he had never sought it out. And yet, he thought, remembering how distant his thoughts had been, perhaps now.... 

He at last looked towards Valjean. He wasn't surprised to find Valjean ill at ease, a worried crease between his eyes and an uncertain twist to his mouth. Javert didn't quite smile, but a hint of satisfaction colored his voice as he said, "Yes, I think laudanum will suit me very well."

Valjean's expression darkened. "Suit you for the procedure, you mean." There was a warning note in his voice, as though he had read Javert's thoughts.

"Of course," Javert said easily, and enjoyed the way Valjean's eyes narrowed. It was a small, petty amusement, but it warmed him nonetheless and eased some of the tension he had carried in his shoulders since he had awoken in his bed. 

The doctor looked between them, frowning, and then pressed a small vial into Javert's hand. "It will be bitter," he warned.

This time Javert couldn't quite suppress a smirk. "I have endured worse, I am sure," he muttered before he downed the tincture. He barely grimaced, though his lips wanted to pucker at the taste. He closed his eyes, hoping the laudanum's effects would take hold of him quickly. He was aware of the doctor going to the door, his voice a quiet murmur as he spoke with Valjean. Valjean's response was a low rumble of sound.

"Javert," Valjean said. Javert opened his eyes to find Valjean now at the foot of his bed. Unsurprisingly, he was frowning. "Swear to me you will not turn to laudanum as you did to drink."

So Valjean had guessed his thoughts. Somehow Javert wasn't surprised. He allowed himself a half-mocking smirk. "And if I do not promise?"

"Then I will," Valjean said, and stopped. His shoulders tensed. He passed a hand over his face, muttering something Javert couldn't make out, and then began to pace. He did not have much room for it; Javert's room was small and cluttered, with barely enough room to hold the bed, the writing desk and chair, the bedside table, and the armoire. "Then I will take your money and give it to your portress for safe-keeping."  

Javert laughed. His eyelids were beginning to grow heavy, but he forced them open to fix Valjean with an amused look. "And when I find the money wherever she's hidden it?"

Valjean scowled and took a step towards the bed, looking so angry that Javert wondered if he too wished to seize Javert and shake him until he obeyed, as Javert had sought to do in the kitchen. Valjean's hands clenched at his sides. When he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. "You said you feared the afterlife and what you might find there. If you abuse laudanum, you will die. Do I need to speak any more plainly?"

Javert's brief bout with amusement died. Already his mind was turning sluggish, his thoughts slowing to the speed of glaciers. The tincture's bitterness lingered on his lips when he licked them. "No," he said distantly, with a vague regret for the oblivion the laudanum would have offered him in the ensuing days. "You've made your point, monsieur le maire."

"Valjean," came the correction. The anger had ebbed from Valjean's voice, replaced by some gentler emotion that Javert could only hope was not pity.

Javert made a quiet sound of agreement in his throat. He should say something, he thought, to explain the slip, but his tongue was thick in his mouth and he was too tired to try and speak. He closed his eyes instead, and let the laudanum pull him into slumber.

 

* * *

 

Awareness returned slowly, the throbbing in his head dragging him rather grudgingly from the painless state of unconsciousness. When Javert opened his eyes, he found himself alone. 

Someone had left a plate of food and the water jug on the bedside table, as well as a single lit candlestick. He frowned at them even as he fumbled for the water jug, his throat dry and the inside of his mouth foul. It was only once he'd set the jug back down that he noticed the bandages around his wrists and felt a light pressure against his throat that must be bandages as well. He left them alone, concentrated instead on breaking off a piece of bread and forcing himself to eat. The bread tasted like ashes, but he chewed methodically. At least the food made his headache lessen a little, although that only made him more aware of the pain of his rope burns and blisters.   

A few minutes later, the door opened. Madame Bonnet peered inside. Her anxious air turned to one of relief. "Monsieur Javert," she said, stepping further into the room. "You slept quite a while!"

"That is how the laudanum takes me," Javert said. "Where is--" He remembered almost too late to swallow back the name that rose to his lips. "Where is Monsieur Fauchelevent?"

"Gone, monsieur." Something in his face made her eyes widen as she added hastily, "He said he had to get back to his daughter, but that he would return tomorrow afternoon."

Javert sighed in exasperation, not at all surprised to learn that Valjean had decided to invite himself back to the apartment. "Of course he did." He remembered how Valjean had glowered at him and fussed at him like some mother-hen. Doubtless Valjean wished to assure himself that Javert would not begin to abuse laudanum or resume his drinking. He looked around, frowning as something nagged at him. At last he realized what was wrong. "Madame, where are my coats?" He stared at the half-open armoire, seeing empty spaces where both his greatcoat and his summer-coat should have been.

Madame Bonnet looked puzzled. Then her expression cleared. "Monsieur Fauchelevent took them. He said you needed them washed and patched up, and that he would see to it." She stared, eyes widening further in confusion, when Javert laughed.

The laudanum-haze had not quite left him, his anger still a distant thing, but he was unmuddled just enough to be irritated. "Damn the man," he muttered under his breath. "Does he think I won't resort to walking out to the nearest wine-shop in my shirtsleeves if I want a drink that badly?" And even if Javert wasn't that desperate, surely he needed only speak to the porter to get some wine.

"That Monsieur Fauchelevent is a strange one, if you don't mind me saying so," Madame Bonnet said with an uncertain look. "Begging your pardon, monsieur, for it's obvious he is a friend of yours." Before he could correct her, she continued. "Do you know, he gave us three napoleons if Pierre would pour out all the wine in the house? Even when we told him that wine only cost us about ten francs, he insisted upon the promised sixty francs!"

She drew back a little when something that was more of a snarl than a laugh escaped Javert's lips. "Of course he did. I suppose he ensured that the doctor did not leave any laudanum as well."

He didn't curse at the portress's nod, but it was a very near thing.

“Do you need anything, inspector?” Madame Bonnet asked tentatively. Her gaze lingered on the empty plate. “The doctor said you might be hungry or thirsty when you woke. I have more bread.”   
  
_I want to be left alone_ , Javert wanted to snarl, his irritation increasing with the lessening of the laudanum haze. Still, there was no reason to be rude to the woman. He would much rather direct all his anger upon a more deserving, albeit absent, target: Valjean. Besides, his throat  _was_  still dry. “Some more water, perhaps,” he said.  
  
Madame Bonnet snatched up the jug; she looked almost relieved to have something to do. “I’ll be back in a moment, monsieur.”   
  
Javert leaned back against the pillow once she had gone. He closed his eyes and laid there for a moment, attempting to gather his strength, though the headache and the ache in his wrists and throat seemed to leech it away. His hands trembled where they rested upon the blankets; he could feel sweat beading his forehead. After a long moment, he sat up straighter and surveyed the room once more.  
  
He caught sight of his boots placed neatly at the foot of his bed. Despite himself, a faint smirk played upon his lips. “Well, it seems I'll only have to walk the streets in my shirtsleeves, not barefoot, if I wish for wine.” He shook his head, still exasperated that Valjean had actually made off with his coats. Damn the man’s meddlesome nature.   
  
He was frowning when Madame Bonnet reentered. “Here, monsieur,” she said, setting the jug on the table. Then she hesitated, a look passing over her face that came and went too quickly for him to interpret. “Are you certain you don’t wish to see Monsieur Chabouillet? I am quite sure that he will return. He seemed very worried about--” She faltered briefly and then seemed to steel herself. “About your state of mind after being held prisoner. And now that Monsieur Fauchelevent explained how you’ve been wandering the streets in a daze from your injuries, I….” She trailed off and bit at her lower lip, frowning.   
  
Had she really accepted that premise? Surely he reeked of beer. Still, when he searched her face, he found no rebuke or even pity, just honest concern. “I am certain,” he said, striving to keep his tone even. “Send him away if he comes.”   
  
“Very well,” she said, though she frowned. “And Monsieur Fauchelevent?”

“Oh, send him in,” Javert muttered with a dry laugh. “I owe him an argument about my coats.”   
  
Madame Bonnet looked politely confused. “Very well. If you need anything else, monsieur, call for me.” She watched for Javert’s nod of acknowledgment and then departed, closing the door softly behind her.   
  
Javert had not wanted her company, but after a moment he found that the room grew unbearably quiet without anyone else’s presence. There were no distractions now; even his headache had lessened to the point that it was mostly bearable, the pain in his wrists and throat subsided to a dull ache. There were no diversions to keep him from his thoughts.   
  
“Damn,” he muttered. He closed his eyes once more, desperately trying to convince himself he was tired. It didn't work; it skirted too closely to an untruth, and if he had never lied to others before these past few days, he had certainly never lied to himself. He wasn't tired. In fact, he felt wide awake. The laudanum’s lethargy was gone, his mind teeming once more with the same bleak thoughts that had driven him from the parapet and into the nearest wine-shop.  
  
Javert swore again. He wished that the doctor had ignored Valjean and left behind a little laudanum, if just to let him sleep until morning. He pondered his options for a moment. He couldn't go outside, but perhaps the porter had hidden away some wine. Surely Monsieur Bonnet hadn’t given _all_ of it to Valjean, no matter that Valjean had given him those sixty francs.

Despite the potential of wine with which to numb his thoughts again, Javert couldn't bring himself to get up from the bed. He scowled. If his current level of luck held, Madame Bonnet would overhear his query to her husband and shoo Javert back to bed before she disposed of the wine. Doubtless, he thought bitterly, Valjean had swayed her to his side and she would help to keep wine and all other means of distractions from him.   
  
He tried to expunge the thoughts that raced through his mind and to wipe his mind clean through sheer will, but his efforts were of little use. He didn't want to contemplate of all the ways Valjean had undone him, shaken his certainty in the natural order of things, revealed that there was a greater part of life than duty. But it seemed that he couldn't do otherwise without the aid of wine or laudanum.   
  
There must be another means of distraction that he hadn't considered. He thought of reading, but he was certain he wouldn't be able to concentrate enough upon the book to be properly diverted. He studied his wrists for a moment. An idea crept into his mind then, one which surely would have made Valjean lose his temper had he known of it. Javert smiled grimly. Well, Valjean wasn't here to stop him.   
  
He tested his idea by gripping his left wrist with his other hand and then tightening his hold. The blisters and rope burns protested the pressure with a white-hot pain that temporarily banished all thought. Once he could think again, he caught his breath and frowned. The test had succeeded in wiping his mind clean for a minute or two, but it seemed like an inelegant method that would only distract him for brief intervals. Besides, if his injuries worsened through this abuse, Valjean would certainly notice.  
  
“If he has already stooped to stealing my coats, I do not think I want to know how he would react to this,” he said to himself, looking ruefully at the small spot of red that had now stained the white bandages. He thought of Valjean’s callused hands, firm and unyielding upon his arms, and considered how Valjean might even go so far as to tie Javert to the bed until his injuries were healed.   
  
Javert warmed at the thought. From anger, he told himself, and aggravation at this discomforting punishment God had decided to administer in the form of Valjean. He swore again, this time silently. Would that Valjean had not chosen to walk down that particular street and found him! Would that Javert had been allowed to drink himself to oblivion for even just one more day!   
  
“Would that I have never heard the name Jean Valjean,” he concluded gloomily into the silence of his room.


	2. Forgiveness With Teeth

“What no one ever talks about  
is how dangerous hope can be.  
Call it forgiveness   
with teeth.”

-“Change Came to Me Like a Crooked Beast” by Clementine von Radics

 

* * *

 

  
Valjean returned the following afternoon, bringing with him the doctor and Madame Bonnet. His hands were conspicuously empty of Javert’s coats. Javert narrowed his eyes; he felt vaguely trapped, as though he were some beast that the doctor, the portress, and Valjean had treed.   
  
“I need to check your wounds, monsieur,” the doctor said, frowning worriedly at the bloodstained bandages. He hesitated, and cast a queer sideways glance towards Valjean before he refocused his gaze on Javert’s wrists. “It will be a trifle painful, but not enough to warrant laudanum.”   
  
Well, Valjean might have lied to Madame Bonnet about Javert's state when Valjean had stumbled upon him, but it seemed that he had told enough of the truth to the doctor for the man to be uneasy. Javert pursed his lips. He pointedly did not look at Valjean as he said, “That is fine. Laudanum disagrees with me.”   
  
The doctor was apparently the sort to talk to himself, for he muttered unhappily under his breath as he peeled away the bandages and scowled at the state of Javert’s injuries. Valjean had settled himself in the far corner of the room, his arms crossed against his chest and an intent look upon his face. Madame Bonnet for her part had blanched at the sight of the bloodstains, which he'd concealed from her when she’d brought him his breakfast; she now stared fixedly at the wall.   
  
“I need to clean the wounds,” announced the doctor a few minutes later. “And the bandages will need changing twice a day to keep off further infection.” He turned towards Madame Bonnet. “Shall I show you how to do it?”  
  
“ _Me_ , monsieur?” the portress said faintly. Javert had thought her pale before; now he knew she could go even whiter, all color gone from her face. She began to wring her hands. “M-monsieur le docteur, I cannot bear the sight of, of blood, I cannot--”  
  
“I know how to bandage wounds,” Valjean said from his corner.   
  
Javert laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound that made Madame Bonnet flinch and the doctor wince. “No,” he said flatly. He bared his teeth, feeling even more like a trapped beast. “You won't touch me.”   
  
Valjean regarded him steadily, apparently unimpressed by Javert’s glare. “Your injuries must be properly treated. And the doctor can scarcely abandon his other patients because you refuse to let me help you.”  
  
“You have done enough,” Javert snarled. His hands twitched in his lap. He resisted the urge to snatch up the water jug and fling it at Valjean’s face. Perhaps that would banish that maddeningly calm look. “You must know that you are not wanted here!”   
  
Much to Javert’s exasperation, Valjean almost smiled at that, the corner of his eyes creasing. “I had noticed, yes. I disregarded the fact.”   
  
Fury made it difficult to think, much less speak. “You won't touch me,” Javert repeated, his voice thick with rage. When Valjean’s expression remained set, Javert turned to the doctor and said, “Show me how to bandage my own wrists. I still have use of my hands, I'm certain I can manage it.”   
  
The doctor hesitated. His gaze swung between Valjean and Javert. “I don't think that is a good idea, monsieur,” he said hesitantly. “You need to rest, not go about bandaging your own wounds…..”   
  
“Then Monsieur Bonnet,” Javert said almost desperately. He imagined Valjean’s hands upon him once more and flushed hot. No, he might have agreed to give way on the laudanum, but he would be damned, both literally and figuratively, before he would let Valjean play nursemaid to him.   
  
“I don't think Pierre should be let anywhere near your injuries, monsieur,” Madame Bonnet said. The direction of her gaze had reverted back to the wall, though color had not yet returned to her face.   
  
“Then, then--” Javert groped desperately for another solution. He found none. With a snarl that even to his own ears sounded barely human, he gave in to temptation and flung the jug at Valjean’s head.   
  
It was a pitiful attempt, his strength sapped by days of drinking and lack of sleep. Valjean caught the jug easily. He looked down at it, an unreadable look on his face. “I think he needs more water, madame,” he said at last, and handed the jug off to Madame Bonnet as Javert choked on his incensed laughter. 

The doctor cleared his throat. Javert ignored him in favor of glaring at Valjean. After a moment the doctor said slowly, “Madame, would you assist me in the kitchen? I’ll need some warm water to properly clean the wounds.” 

“Yes, of course.” Madame Bonnet sounded relieved, though whether she was glad to escape the sight of bloodstained bandages or because she wished to flee before Javert threw something else, Javert wasn’t entirely certain.   
  
There was the sound of retreating footsteps and the door clicking shut. Javert didn't look away from Valjean. Baring his teeth had not kept Valjean at bay before, but Javert still snarled when Valjean unfolded his arms and began a slow approach to the bed.   
  
“I will have my way on this,” Valjean said. Javert recognized the tone. It was Monsieur Madeleine’s implacable voice, the one that said he would not be swayed, no matter how someone might try to change his mind. “Your wounds need to be tended. You  _will_  let me change your bandages since Madame Bonnet cannot.” Confusion crept into his face then, his severe look softening in his bafflement. “I wish you would see reason, Javert. While I realize you dislike--”

“While I  _dislike_  you?” Javert laughed again, bitter. He looked around for something else to throw, but there was nothing at hand. Besides, he thought sourly, doubtless a second attempt would be even more pitiful than the first. “It is more than that, Valjean.” He ignored the pain in his throat, the wounds stinging in protest at the force of his words. “You exasperate me, you and your acts of mercy, you and your horrified look when I confessed how I’d wished to die--” His throat tightened. For a second, he couldn't breathe. He finally managed to speak. “If I didn't think I would fall flat on my face in the attempt, I would take you by the throat and throw you out onto the street. Your very face maddens me.”   
  
Valjean stared at him, his eyes wide. Ridiculously, he almost looked hurt by Javert’s words, as though he truly didn’t understand Javert’s resentment. Then his expression firmed. A frown settled upon his lips. He said flatly, “Well, you will have to endure my company until the doctor says you are healed.”   
  
Javert opened his mouth to protest or perhaps simply to curse, but the doctor announced his presence by clearing his throat. “The water will be ready in a few minutes, monsieur. In the meantime I would speak to you.” The doctor looked uneasy. “In private.”   
  
If Javert hadn't been distracted wondering what exactly Valjean had told the doctor, he might have been amused at Valjean’s startled look. “You heard the man, go wait in the hallway.” Belatedly he added, “And return my coats!”   
  
“I will return your coats when the doctor says you are recovered enough to leave the house,” Valjean said mildly. He went out before Javert could think of a proper retort.   
  
“Monsieur,” said the doctor. He didn't quite meet Javert’s eyes. “I hope you do not think me forward, but Monsieur Fauchelevent mentioned you haven't been, well, been in the best of spirits--”  
  
“Are you a priest?”   
  
The doctor stared at him. “What? No.”   
  
“Then keep your business to the physical,” Javert said curtly.   
  
The doctor pursed his lips and seemed to come to a decision. “Very well. As your doctor, however, let me tell you that if you reopen your wounds as you did last night, you will have to endure Monsieur Fauchelevent’s company for quite some time. Since that idea seems displeasing to you….” He trailed off, but his meaning was plain.   
  
“Is there really no one else who might come and change the bandages?” Javert asked. He didn't sigh when the doctor shook his head in denial, but it was a very near thing. He muttered under his breath, “Very well, I asked for punishment. Why should I shrink away now?”   
  
If the doctor heard this remark, he gave no sign. He simply retreated from the room and returned a few minutes later with Valjean, a fresh set of bandages, and a pot of warm water. Javert gritted his teeth and reclined back against the pillows. Slowly he forced his body to relax, until the only tension he carried was in his jaw.   
  
“You will have to come closer than that,” the doctor said a trifle dryly.   
  
Javert almost smirked as Valjean muttered, “Does he have anything left to throw?”

“I don’t,” he said, and then closed his eyes. That was a mistake, for several of his other senses compensated to torment him. The rustling of Valjean’s clothes as he neared the bed sounded too loud in Javert’s ears. Javert kept his jaw set and breathed through his nose as the doctor slowly peeled away the old bandages and began to clean the wounds. He tried to distract himself by focusing on keeping his breaths deep and steady, but he was acutely aware of Valjean’s presence.   
  
The doctor murmured instructions and explanations that Javert let go in one ear and out the other. Occasionally the man’s speech paused and was answered by a mutter of acknowledgement on Valjean’s part. These quiet sounds raised the hair on the back of Javert’s neck and ignited his imagination, though he still refused to open his eyes. He pictured Valjean leaning over the bed and his intent expression: that contemplative furrow in his brow that he’d so often worn as Monsieur Madeleine poring over Javert’s reports or listening to one of the townspeople, now directed at the doctor’s work.   
  
Javert didn't sigh in relief when the doctor at last stepped away and announced he was finished, but it was a very near thing. He ventured to open his eyes. He immediately regretted it, for while the doctor was now moving towards the door, old bandages in his arms, Valjean hadn't moved.  
  
“What?” Javert said, for Valjean’s gaze lingered on Javert’s throat and he was frowning. He had the absurd notion to tug up his collar and shield the bandaged wounds from view. He felt strangely exposed, which was ridiculous. Hadn't Valjean seen him bound in the very martingale which had caused the injuries? He remembered the other man’s closeness as Valjean had cut him free, how Javert could have counted the lines at the corners of Valjean’s eyes if he’d had the inclination. Fighting back heat that wanted to creep into his face and resisting once more the urge to tug at his collar, Javert snapped, “ _What_?”   
  
“Nothing,” Valjean said, but he still frowned. Finally, when Javert pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes at him, Valjean relented. The words were spoken slowly and awkwardly. “I only wonder how it is you came to be just outside the sewers when you--that is, when you were injured and should have been recovering here.”   
  
“I had my duty,” Javert said stiffly. “My injuries were not severe, and Monsieur le Prefect needed me there to ensure no insurgents escaped.” Despite the pain in his wrists and throat and his frustration at Valjean’s presence, he couldn’t quite stifle the twist of his lips or his rueful remark of, “Though Monsieur Gisquet would have been better served by a different man there, for he would have arrested an old jailbird and a dying insurgent for the price of one.”   
  
“I'd say that I am glad it was you, but doubtless you would take it amiss.” Valjean's tone was neutral, though there was a glint in his eyes that Javert disliked, one that seemed half-amused.   
  
“Then it's good you didn’t say so,” Javert said dryly.   
  
“And the boy still lives.” Surprisingly, Valjean didn't seem particularly pleased by this. His lips twisted downward as though he’d bitten into something sour. “He is feverish and the doctor does not know if he will survive, but so far--”  
  
“You speak as though I care,” Javert said.   
  
Valjean raised an eyebrow. “You _did_ help save his life. Aren't you curious about his fate?”   
  
“I only helped him because I thought he was dying,” Javert muttered, “and thought it best to bring his corpse to his family.”

Valjean looked disbelieving, but didn't argue. “Well, he lives. The doctor told me today that if he survives the next week or so, he may yet recover.”

Javert opened his mouth. Then he actually looked at Valjean and paused. For the first time he noticed a certain grayness to Valjean's skin and the almost bruised look to the man's eyes. “You have been visiting the boy as well?” he asked, unsurprised at Valjean’s slow nod. He resettled himself against his pillow and folded his bandaged arms carefully across his chest. “You ask why I did not rest after the barricades. I might ask why you have not done the same. Dragging a near-corpse through miles of sewer is quite a feat, even for you, and now you tell me you have been frequenting two different bedsides. Did you at least take a carriage here? Surely you didn't walk all the way from….” Valjean looked away, and Javert snorted. “I thought as much. Go to your apartment and rest. Having you drop dead from exhaustion would be a pretty thing to explain to my landlady.”

Valjean folded his arms against his chest. The corners of his mouth turned down. “A moment more of your time, please. Then I'll leave and return tomorrow,” he said, still not looking at Javert.

“Yes, well?” Javert said impatiently when Valjean fell silent.

“You hold yourself to too high a standard. Even in Montreuil-sur-Mur, you would have had me dismiss you for a single mistake--”

“Not a mistake, in the end,” Javert said. He watched Valjean warily now, with a grim, creeping suspicion that he knew where this speech of Valjean's was heading. 

“You asked for your dismissal over a single _perceived_ mistake,” Valjean continued. A hint of irritation crept into his tone, though his expression remained reserved. “You do the same today. You say you betrayed your position, but does your decision to let me remain at liberty truly destroy _every_ good thing you have done in your career?” Now Valjean did turn to look at him, and spread his hands almost pleadingly. “You do not accept bribes. You have learned a little of mercy. The police need officers like you, Javert. Will you abandon your post?”

Javert's jaw had tightened with every word of Valjean's speech until it was a wonder his teeth had not cracked from the force with which he was grinding them together. It took him a moment to convince his jaw to unlock and his mouth to shape words. “Enough,” he said roughly. “I cannot ignore that I forsook my duty. I should be punished, but since the police cannot punish me--”

“You must punish yourself?” Valjean said sharply. “If you insist on this foolishness, let me suggest a different punishment. Return to your position as inspector, convinced that you don't deserve it. Continue your work, but deal out mercy as well as justice. You said once that it was easy to be kind but difficult to be just. Perhaps that is true for most, but I think it is not so with you. Devote yourself to the difficulty of kindness and mercy.”

Javert stared. Thoughts dashed against each other and dissolved like waves upon the sand. He couldn't summon up a proper argument. “You are absurd,” he muttered at last through clenched teeth.

“I could say the same of you,” Valjean said.

“And you speak as though the police force is full of criminals!” Javert narrowed his eyes at Valjean’s low, humorless chuckle. “And that I am somehow important--”  
  
“How is it that you are so hard on yourself, and yet seem to turn a blind eye to the failings of your fellow officers?” Valjean mumbled half under his breath. Louder, exasperated, as though Javert were the one being foolish, he continued. “And if you are not important, then why did a Monsieur Chabouillet come looking for you yesterday? Madame Bonnet said he seemed quite concerned about your disappearance. Surely you--”   
  
He broke off as the door opened. The doctor stuck his head in, frowning. “I thought I heard raised voices, messieurs.” He looked uneasily between them; whatever he saw in their expressions made his frown deepen. “The inspector really should be resting.”   
  
Valjean’s frustrated look shifted to one of stiff politeness. He nodded towards the doctor. “You are right, monsieur. I will return tomorrow afternoon.” He darted a glance at Javert, said something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, _Perhaps you will see reason then_. The doctor had opened the door fully, and Valjean started towards the exit.   
  
Javert glared after him, not bothering to hide his temper. It was just like Valjean to leave an argument wholly unresolved, much less mid-sentence. “But we are not finished,” he objected, sitting up straighter. Valjean didn't even pause. Javert called after him, for Valjean could not be allowed to have the last word. “At least return my coats tomorrow!”   
  
“No,” Valjean said over his shoulder, and disappeared through the doorway as Javert growled.   
  
The doctor lingered for a moment. He seemed to be studying Javert, who forced himself to relax back against the pillow. The doctor pursed his lips. “I will come in the morning and change your bandages then. I need to check your humors and watch for any signs of further infection,” he said. “Should I leave bandages for Monsieur Fauchelevent with your portress?”   
  
“Yes,” Javert said. He shifted on the bed, still frustrated. It was unfair of Valjean to leave when they were not done fighting. It was even worse of him to say these things, to try and tempt him back onto the force. He thought of returning to the police-station, of all the paperwork that had doubtless piled up on his desk, of all the criminals he had yet to arrest. His hands clenched and unclenched; his chest tightened. A wry smile curved his lips. “It surely cannot be a punishment if I want it,” he muttered under his breath.   
  
“Monsieur?”   
  
With a start, he realized that the doctor was still there. Javert blinked at the other man and tried to remember what they had been speaking on. “Leaving the bandages with Madame Bonnet will be fine,” he said. When the doctor still didn't leave, he raised an eyebrow. “Is there anything else?”  
  
“Only that you should eat hearty meals for the next few days to regain your strength.”   
  
“I'm certain Madame Bonnet will see to that,” Javert said dryly, remembering the way she had pressed food upon him the night before and that morning.   
  
“Then I would only suggest more rest, monsieur. I will see you tomorrow.” With a slight bow, the doctor took his leave and left Javert to his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

The knock upon Javert’s door was quiet but firm. Javert studied the door. Madame Bonnet’s knock was forceful, the doctor’s uneasy. Monsieur Bonnet did not venture up the stairs to knock upon anyone’s door. If it were Chabouillet, he would probably be calling Javert’s name. Therefore, Javert reasoned, it must be Valjean.   
  
Javert sat upright. He eyed the door once more. Doubtless his expression more befitted a man about to face the guillotine, but he didn't bother to change his look. Let Valjean see his grimness and know he meant business. Briefly, he went over the argument he had been preparing since Valjean had quitted their argument yesterday like a coward. He would dissuade Valjean of his certainty that Javert’s dereliction of duty was a minor, forgivable mistake as well as his absurd notion that Javert should return to his post.   
  
No, Valjean wouldn't get the final word this time. “Come in,” he said at the second, firmer knock.   
  
Valjean entered juggling bandages and a small basin. The portress followed him with soap and a second basin of water. At least Valjean seemed to have slept, for the grayness was gone from his face. That was good. Javert wanted him clear-headed for the continuation of their argument, in which Valjean would be forced to admit he was mistaken and Javert correct.   
  
“If you need anything more, monsieur, please let me know,” Madame Bonnet said. She settled her basin and the bar of soap carefully upon the bedside table, next to Javert’s empty plate of food. She took the empty plate with her, closing the door quietly.   
  
“You didn’t bring my coats,” Javert said.  
  
Valjean’s expression twisted, half-amused, half-disbelieving, as though he thought Javert was joking but wasn’t quite certain. “I said I wouldn’t,” he answered, setting his burdens down next to Madame Bonnet’s basin. “Not until the doctor says you are recovered.”   
  
“I suppose I should be grateful that you didn't take my boots as well.”  
  
The corners of Valjean’s mouth turned up. “The thought did cross my mind,” he admitted. He removed his gloves and tucked them into a pocket of his coat. “But I didn't think I could justify it to your landlady.”   
  
Javert snorted.   
  
Valjean drew up the chair to Javert’s bed. He shrugged out of his coat and draped it across the back of the chair. His shirt and waistcoat were plain and a little worn, but still serviceable, Javert noted. But then, he reflected, even as Madeleine Valjean had not worn the latest fashions but had kept his clothes simple.   
  
Then Valjean began to roll up his sleeves.   
  
Javert gave a little start of surprise. “What are you doing?” he demanded.   
  
Valjean raised a puzzled gaze to him, one sleeve rolled up to his elbow, the other still concealing his wrist. “I am trying to keep from getting my cuffs wet,” he said slowly. “Do you have some objection?”   
  
Javert tried not to stare at Valjean’s exposed skin, the pale scars there left by Toulon, but he could not drag his gaze away. His mouth was dry, suddenly, the room too warm. He licked his lips, muttered after a second, “Of course I do. What if Madame Bonnet comes in unexpectedly? How will you explain your scars?”   
  
“I asked her not to disturb us. I trust that she will stay downstairs,” Valjean said. Without waiting for a reply, he rolled up the second sleeve to his elbow and began to wash his hands in the first basin, scrubbing briskly at his skin with the soap. 

Javert had known that this would be torturous, but he had thought the torment would begin once Valjean had actually laid hands upon him, not before. He shifted uneasily on the bed, unsettled by the flexing of Valjean’s forearms and the quick, certain movements of Valjean’s hands. It all seemed strangely intimate, though he must have seen Valjean exposed like this before at Toulon. Still, he could not recall such a memory, his thoughts all disjointed. He tore his gaze away so that he could fiddle with his own shirt. He rolled up his cuffs just past his swathed wrists, undid the exact amount of buttons at his throat it would take to expose the bandages and no more. When he looked up again, Valjean was drying his hands on his waistcoat.   
  
“Well,” Valjean said, turning towards him. His expression was calm, almost reserved. Apparently he wasn't bothered over being nearly undressed, Javert thought crossly. “Did the doctor leave any more instructions before we begin?”   
  
Javert wasn't tempted to lie, but for a moment he did wish the doctor had left some manner of instruction for Valjean, if only to delay for another moment longer. “No,” he muttered. He forced a smirk upon his lips that doubtless seemed more of a grimace. “Now shall we get this over with?”   
  
Valjean said nothing and reached for Javert’s right wrist.   
  
Javert gritted his teeth and endured the touch. He hadn't thought to worry that Valjean might handle him delicately, like some fragile thing, but now he found himself almost relieved as Valjean unwound the bandages with deliberate movements. He didn't let himself study Valjean’s furrowed brow or allow his gaze to linger upon Valjean’s hands. Instead he focused his eyes upon the far corner of the room and kept them fixed there as Valjean washed and re-bandaged his wrists.   
  
It was only when Valjean’s hand moved towards Javert’s throat that he balked. He tensed, something like disquiet tightening his stomach.   
  
Valjean paused. His hand hovered in mid-air, his fingertips almost but not quite brushing the bandages. “You must relax. I don't think being so tense is good for the wounds.”   
  
Javert couldn't comprehend his tone, though he didn't sound annoyed. Unwillingly, he forced his gaze back towards Valjean. He saw that the other man’s expression was equally undecipherable. He tried to force himself to relax, but his muscles remained tense, the bandages suddenly too tight around his throat.   
  
“Javert,” Valjean said.   
  
“Were you truly not tempted?” Javert asked, which was not what he had intended to say at all. When Valjean looked blank, Javert huffed out an exasperated breath. “At the barricades? You had the knife, you had me--”  
  
Valjean’s expression darkened. “No,” he said. “I wasn't. I thought-- when you didn't arrest me, I thought you understood-- do you truly believe me to be a man who would commit murder?”   
  
“No,” Javert said slowly. He wished that Valjean would lower his hand. It made it difficult to think. The words were dragged from him slowly, almost reluctantly. “I know you are not, but I still don’t know why you weren't tempted even a little.”

Valjean said nothing for a moment. His expression had eased somewhat at Javert’s admission, the darkness leaving his features. Now he looked a little puzzled. “The thought of killing you never crossed my mind. Why would it?”   
  
Javert laughed. The incredulous sound was half-strangled by the bandages. “Have you no self-preservation at all, Valjean? One flick of your knife and you would have been safe from discovery. You might have had your revenge. It would've been just. Instead you released me, and then went still further, giving me your false name and your address. What sort of man gifts his enemy with an invitation to arrest him?”   
  
Valjean hesitated once more. He muttered something under his breath.  
  
“Speak up,” Javert demanded. He didn't quite dare to lean forward. That would've meant moving into Valjean’s touch, for the other man’s hand still hung suspended between them. Instead he sharpened his tone. “I've answered your questions, you will answer mine.”   
  
Louder, through gritted teeth, Valjean said, “You were never my enemy, Javert, only a man doing his duty. And I was…tired.”   
  
Javert wasn't certain how he had expected Valjean to answer him, but this wasn't it. He stared. He examined this peculiar response, and ignored the first strange sentence in favor of the second. “You were  _tired_?”   
  
“Tired,” Valjean repeated. His shoulders were tense, his gaze lowered. Just saying the word seemed to have brought the weariness to bear once more upon him. His hand finally lowered to rest upon the edge of the bed; it clenched and unclenched into a fist. The words came slowly, almost as reluctantly as Javert’s earlier admission. “I was tired of hiding, of constantly looking over my shoulder, of answering to the name Fauchelevent and never my own. For the past eight years, I had-- have endured it for Cosette. She made-- makes life bearable. But I knew she would soon have no need of me if I could get the boy away from the barricades. What use will she have for an old con once she has a husband? And then you were there, and it seemed…right.”   
  
Javert, who hadn't understood most of Valjean’s speech, seized upon the one thing he comprehended. “Cosette. That--” He checked the first word that sprang to his lips, for he would not get an answer if he enraged Valjean with thoughtless words. “That woman’s child is still with you?” He recalled Madame Bonnet saying something about a daughter, but only now did it sink in.   
  
Valjean did not quite smile, but there was a gleam in his eyes that Javert did not recognize, something suspiciously tender. “I raised her as I promised Fantine I would. If the boy lives, he and Cosette will be married.”   
  
Javert laughed mirthlessly. “I hadn't thought to wonder why you were there,” he said. “It seemed inevitable. So you were there to rescue the girl’s lover from his foolishness.”  
  
“Were it not for the boy’s foolishness, you would've been killed by one of those men’s bullets,” Valjean said, though there was no reproach in his voice.  
  
“Not so,” Javert said offhandedly. “They wouldn't have wasted a bullet on me. They would have found some other means.”

He was a little puzzled by the way Valjean’s eyes narrowed, as though Javert had offered an insult rather than a mere correction of the facts. “Why do you speak of your own murder as one would remark upon the weather?”   
  
Javert blinked at Valjean’s exasperated tone. Dark humor briefly made his lips twitch. He raised an eyebrow. “Why do you seem more upset over my death than your own life imprisonment?” he countered.   
  
Valjean muttered something under his breath again, but this time when Javert motioned for him to repeat himself, Valjean ignored him. Instead he turned back to the water basin as he said, “We should finish this.”   
  
The return of Javert’s earlier unease banished the brief, morbid amusement. He touched the bandages at his throat and pursed his lips. The lump of disquiet had returned to his stomach, twisted now into an intricate knot. “I know the doctor said--”  
  
“No,” Valjean said without looking at him, and Javert scowled.  
  
“You didn't let me finish.”  
  
“You are going to try to argue that you can clean and bandage your own wounds,” Valjean said, dampening a piece of linen in the water. He fiddled with the wet linen for a moment before he draped it over the edge of the basin. He turned back to Javert. His look was resolute. “We're going to follow the doctor’s orders.”   
  
Javert tensed once more as Valjean’s hand rose towards his throat, flinching before he could repress the movement.   
  
Valjean paused. Something like frustration twisted his features. “Will you let me do this? It will only take a moment if you'll relax and keep still.”   
  
“Then do it,” snapped Javert. His hands had curled into fists at his sides. He folded his arms against his chest and tried to ignore the way his heart pounded in his ears, how his rapid heartbeat seemed to reverberate against the bandages. Unconsciously, his lips had drawn away from his teeth, but Valjean didn't seem dissuaded by his snarl.   
  
Valjean bent to his task, but his hands were not as steady as they had been upon Javert’s wrists. They shook a little with agitation; his fingers fumbled with the bandages, drawing the bandages tighter until Javert hissed a warning. Valjean’s hands stilled. He took a deep breath. There was a flush upon his cheeks. “Forgive me,” he muttered. He made another attempt, his hands somewhat steadier.   
  
Valjean unpeeled the bandages at last and set them aside. Then he drew the damp linen gently across the marks the martingale had left behind. Even that light pressure caused tiny pinpricks of discomfort where the rope had rubbed Javert’s skin raw.   
  
Javert welcomed the pain, for it was a good distraction from the way Valjean’s face was too near to his own, close enough that Javert could almost feel Valjean’s breath upon his mouth in some terrible parody of a kiss. He immediately regretted that particular turn of thought. It seemed content to linger and infect the rest of his mind. Still, anyone who entered the room unexpectedly would doubtless misunderstand what was transpiring, he thought darkly. His mouth was dry again. He wished that Valjean was not so careful and meticulous. Surely the man could be quicker about cleaning the wounds. Javert wetted his lips with his tongue. “I still think that I could do this myself.” If his voice was a little hoarse it was only from the pain of his injuries, he told himself.   
  
Valjean ignored him. Javert was not entirely surprised. “You need to lower your head,” he said after a moment.

Javert grimaced, though he did not object. Still, he couldn't help but feel that the gesture would be an act of submission, though he knew that it was only meant to allow better access to the back of his neck. Reluctantly, he bowed his head.

There seemed to be a pause but before Javert could wonder at it, the delay was explained by the wet press of the linen to his neck. Valjean must have kept the linen in the basin too long this time; the linen was soaked through rather than merely damp. Tepid water dripped down Javert’s neck, sliding under his collar and making him shudder.

“Sorry,” Valjean muttered. He drew the linen away and then thumbed at one of the droplets as it made its way down Javert’s neck. Valjean’s thumb dragged lightly across Javert’s skin, leaving goose bumps and raised hairs in its wake.

The knot in Javert’s stomach gave way to sudden, traitorous warmth. A sound escaped Javert’s lips before he could stifle it.

The noise had been quiet, but Valjean must have heard, for his hand paused and then cupped the back of Javert's neck, resting lightly there. “Javert?” There was concern in the low rumble. Even the way his name fell from Valjean’s lips was too much.

Javert couldn't think. The bandages were gone but he still felt as though he were being strangled. He felt raw all over, like the rope burns encompassed his entire body instead of merely his wrists and throat. “Enough,” he muttered through his teeth, only half-aware of what he was saying. He twitched violently, as though he could throw off  Valjean’s hand with the sudden gesture, like a horse trying to shake off a fly. “Must you-- you are too _gentle_ \--” The last word came out sounding like a curse.

“What? Would you have me punish you?” Valjean demanded, exasperated once more.

Javert laughed, a low, despairing sound. “You are a ninny,” he snarled. He raised his head and found Valjean half-bent over the bed, staring at him, puzzled and disturbed.

He shouldn't have looked up. They were too close once more. Valjean’s breath ghosted against his lips in another mockery of a kiss. When Valjean’s frown deepened, Javert was tormented by the way the corners of his mouth pinched, the taunting swell of his lower lip as Valjean pursed his lips but didn't speak.

“You annoy me,” Javert said, almost helplessly. “I wish you would take your gentleness and--” The words caught in his throat and choked him until he couldn't breathe. He laughed again at Valjean’s bewildered look. He was still laughing, quiet and self-mocking, as he caught hold of Valjean’s collar and tugged Valjean closer.

Their lips met clumsily, Javert’s parted in laughter, Valjean’s parted in surprise. Their teeth clacked together, a curious sound half-lost beneath Valjean’s startled gasp. Valjean muttered something against Javert’s mouth, but Javert half-swallowed the words and stopped up his ears.

His hand still clutched Valjean’s collar; he felt the fabric bunch under his fingers as Valjean shifted away from him. Valjean’s lips, soft where they were not slightly chapped, were suddenly out of reach. Javert released Valjean’s collar with reluctance. Then he opened his eyes, wondering distantly when he had closed them.

Valjean was staring. Astonishment had wiped all other sentiment from his face. Javert hadn't thought anyone could turn that red, but even the tips of Valjean’s ears where they poked out from under his white hair were pink. Valjean blinked slowly. His lips, when he moved to speak, seemed a little swollen; Javert wondered if they tingled as much as his did.

“Javert, I,” Valjean said. He stopped, passing a hand over his face. He lurched upright and began to pace. Javert’s gaze followed him as he stalked back and forth across the small, cramped room. “Javert, you-- you kissed me--”

Half-mad laughter welled up at the astonished tone, as though Valjean still couldn't quite believe it. Javert bit down on the laughter and didn't let it escape his lips. Yes, this was precisely why Javert hadn't wanted Valjean to speak, though he supposed he should be glad that the surprise hadn't given way immediately to disgust. He ignored the way his heart still pounded unsteadily in his ears, struggling to keep his tone matter-of-fact. “Yes.”

“ _Why_?”

Javert didn't respond for a moment. In truth, he was uncertain how to answer. He hadn't been thinking when he'd kissed Valjean. He had simply given into the mad thought that had infected his brain and obeyed that baser impulse. “Why? Well. Why does someone usually kiss someone else?” he said with the faintest twist of his lips. His hand which had seized hold of Valjean’s collar was now clenched into a fist upon the bed. Slowly, he forced his hand to relax and folded his arms against his chest.   
  
His reply was an evasion, and such a pitiful one that it should have been immediately thrown back in Javert's face, but Valjean only stared with those wide eyes of his, uncomprehending. If Javert had judged him by that look, he might have thought even the concept of kissing was foreign to Valjean. Valjean turned abruptly and resumed his pacing.

The sudden turns, the constant movement, the loud thumps his boots made upon the floorboard-- they all made Javert's head hurt. He grew almost dizzy, enough so that his stomach roiled and he was forced to close his eyes. "Sit down," he said, but Valjean didn't obey. Ignoring his stomach twisting itself into yet another knot, he added irritably, “I won't do it again, if that’s your concern. Consider it a passing fit of madness, and not one likely to be repeated.”   
  
Valjean’s quiet answer, when it came, was not what Javert expected. “You aren't mad.”   
  
Javert laughed noiselessly. “Am I not? I think most would disagree on that score, Valjean. We need only examine my actions. In the past few days I have let an ex-convict go free when law and duty dictated that I should arrest him, I have drunk myself senseless for--” He hesitated, for in truth he had lost track of the days. “For however many days--”  
  
“Three,” Valjean supplied.   
  
“For three days, and now I, well.” Javert twisted his lips in another grimace. The words soured on his tongue; he wished again for wine. “I think most would find just cause to doubt my sanity.”   
  
Valjean said nothing. At least he seemed to have stopped his damned pacing, for there was no longer the sound of restless feet upon the floorboard. “Javert,” he said, and the name sounded all wrong as it fell from his lips, uncertain and weary and a third sentiment Javert couldn’t name. “I don’t know what you want of me.”   
  
They weren't cruel words, and yet Javert still recoiled a little against the pillow as though he’d been struck. He laughed again, an odd, croaking sound. “Have I truly not made myself plain?” he muttered through his teeth. “What do I want of you? Is it truly so mystifying? Ah well, perhaps you thought my throwing the jug an expression of endearment! Perhaps you--”

He was snarling and all but spitting out the words, he realized. He took a deep breath. “I want,” he said carefully, each word precise, “to be left alone.”   
  
Valjean mumbled something. Louder, he said, “Fine. But I still need to finish bandaging your wounds.”   
  
“I'm surprised you would risk venturing so close to me again,” Javert said acidly. He opened his eyes in time to catch Valjean’s contorted expression, as though Valjean tasted something unexpectedly bitter. Javert raised his hand and flicked one bandaged wrist at him. “I told you before. I can manage.”   
  
There was a doubtful furrow in Valjean’s brow at that. He seemed to be steeling himself for the unpleasant task, his expression settling into mulish lines.   
  
“I can manage,” Javert said again. The idea of Valjean bandaging his throat with grim determination was unbearable. He bared his teeth in warning. “Go away. Doubtless that woman’s daughter is wondering where you are. Either that, or she admires your devotion to your future son-in-law.”  
  
Valjean’s expression turned even more mulish. “The doctor said--”   
  
“I don’t care,” Javert said. When Valjean only looked at him, Javert said with slow deliberation, “If you do not leave right this instant, I will go out in my damn shirtsleeves and find another wine-shop.”   
  
For a moment, something almost like amusement passed over Valjean’s face, though he didn’t smile. “You cannot buy wine without money.”  
  
“Without--” Javert narrowed his eyes. “Not all my money was in my greatcoat.”   
  
“I know. The rest was in your desk.”

Valjean’s diffident words did not make sense at first. Then comprehension dawned. Javert should have been angry, perhaps, but the utter absurdity of Valjean not only stealing his coats but apparently his money as well dragged an unwilling laugh from his lips. He shook his head, another snort of amusement escaping him even as he bit at the corners of his mouth and tried to scowl at Valjean. “It seems old habits die hard after all. I suppose I really  _should_  be grateful you haven’t made off with my boots as well.”   
  
Valjean directed a speculative look towards the boots, as though Javert had made a suggestion rather than a sarcastic remark.   
  
Javert narrowed his eyes. “You are not taking my damn boots, Valjean. Let me at least be able to walk to the kitchen without accosting Madame and Monsieur Bonnet with my stockings.”   
  
“No, I will leave you the boots,” Valjean agreed. What little amusement had been on his face was gone. He fidgeted and plucked at his cuffs, rolling them down to conceal his wrists once more. His gaze slid away from Javert’s, and color crept back into his face. “I. That is. Your neck still needs bandaging.” He sounded almost miserable, as though it would pain him to touch Javert again.   
  
Javert was suddenly tired. Exhaustion weighed upon him and made him want to close his eyes again so that he wouldn’t have to see Valjean’s wretched look. Instead he cleared his throat and said, “Then let me do it myself. I will be careful. And if I make any mistakes, I’ll bear the brunt of the doctor’s displeasure.” He found himself hoping Valjean would concede and leave. Perhaps by tomorrow Valjean would have recovered enough from the shock of the kiss to better conceal his disgust behind one of his polite, vague Madeleine smiles-- for surely disgust must be the sentiment darkening Valjean’s features. What else could it be?   
  
When Valjean opened his mouth to weakly object, Javert said, “Go away. Please.” He was unaccustomed to begging. The plea fell awkwardly off his tongue.   
  
The furrow on Valjean’s brow seemed to deepen. “Very well,” he said at last with a quick, jerky nod. “I will-- we shall see each other tomorrow….” He moved from fiddling with his cuffs to tugging awkwardly at his cap. He ran his fingers nervously over the brim even as he shuffled towards the exit. He reached the door, hesitating as though he meant to say something more, and then left without a word.   
  
Once the door had clicked shut behind Valjean, Javert leaned back against the pillow and allowed himself a moment in which he did not think at all. Then he took a deep breath, adjusted his arms so that they rested a bit more comfortably against his chest, and thought.   
  
He circled his own thoughts warily, like a hound that was leery of being savaged by the beast it had cornered. He put the question to himself that he had been unable to answer earlier. Why  _had_  he kissed Valjean? He searched his mind and found only disjointed thoughts and no easy answers. His lips drew back in a mirthless smile. It seemed that his body understood him better than his own mind, acting on decisions his mind hadn't yet realized it had made and desires it didn't know it wanted.   
  
After the fall of the barricades and within the carriage, he remembered, his hand had reached for Valjean’s collar and faltered a dozen times, understanding before Javert himself that the other man must remain at liberty. Today, his hand had seized Valjean’s collar, and he had given in to an impulse he could not yet explain.   
  
“Well, what does it matter what I was thinking,” he muttered at last with a harsh laugh. He didn't think about the warmth of Valjean’s lips, or their strange texture of roughness and softness. “It is hardly as though we will kiss again.” No, that seemed as likely as Javert resuming his duties as an inspector.   
  
He recalled Valjean’s time as Madeleine, how he had attended low Mass every Sunday. At the time, Javert had thought it an affectation, but now he knew how Valjean strove for sainthood. And had Valjean as Madeleine not composed a few but firm rules at the factory that complemented these religious sentiments? Javert frowned, trying to remember. How had the rules gone? There had been something about good morals, of that he was certain. He laughed noiselessly at that, clenching his fists. Valjean had all but told him he had committed good acts, before. He didn't think Valjean would make that mistake again. But what was it that Valjean as Madeleine had demanded of the workers at the factory? Javert searched his memories, but they were fragmented like broken glass and impossible to recall with any accuracy.   
  
He dragged himself out of bed, for he had always thought better on his feet. Perhaps moving around would help to restore his memory. He stood up too quickly; the world spun briefly around him before it steadied. He rested his hand on the back of the chair, waiting for his stomach to settle.   
  
Javert had discovered that the law of God and the law of man did not seem to intersect when it came to the matter of Valjean. He doubted this would be an exception, for while man’s law did not condemn what Javert had done, the church would have it that God did. Surely Valjean would agree with the latter. An appalling image assaulted his mind, that of Valjean returning tomorrow with a Bible in hand. He would preach on temptations of the flesh and how they must be avoided, and look at Javert with disapproving pity.   
  
There was a sudden pain in Javert’s hand. He looked down, realizing he was clutching so tightly at the chair that his knuckles had turned white. The rough wood bit at his fingers until he loosened his grip. Javert might have only the barest fragments of pride left, but he would be damned if he had to endure such a sermon. He racked his mind for a solution. Surely there was a way to avoid Valjean’s compassionate censure, even if it meant he must drive Valjean away for good.   
  
But Valjean seemed strangely intent on overseeing Javert’s convalescence, as though once he had saved someone’s life, he felt that he must ensure the man’s future happiness as well. He had done the same for the old man during the cart incident, Javert remembered with a bitter twist of his lips. Madeleine had bought the dead horse and broken cart and had sent the old man to live out his remaining days in peace somewhere outside Montreuil-sur-Mer. Javert shuddered at the idea of Valjean attempting something similar now.   
  
How, then, might he provoke Valjean until he forgot this perceived responsibility and quit Javert’s apartment forever? Javert recalled three recent instances where Valjean’s serene countenance had cracked and temper had darkened his brow. First, when Valjean had realized Javert meant to drink himself unconscious with the porter’s wine jug. Second, when Javert had spoken glibly on his near-death at the hands of the insurgents. Third, when Javert had tried to insist once more upon bandaging his own wounds despite the doctor’s orders.   
  
Well, even saints could abide only so much. It seemed many of Javert’s actions strained Valjean’s temper. And then there was Valjean’s disgust after the kiss, his contorted expression and the way he had so eagerly fled the room. If Valjean couldn't stand what Javert had done and everything that implied, then Javert would throw it in Valjean’s face until the other man left and never returned. Let Valjean no longer be divided between his bedside and that insurgent’s whom the woman’s child meant to marry. Let Valjean retreat to Rue de l'Homme Arme, No. 7 and never come back to look at Javert with pity and poorly concealed revulsion--  
  
His hand hurt again. He drew his hand away from the chair and frowned at the splinter in his thumb. He worked at the splinter with his teeth until he got it free of his skin. This time, he didn't put his hand back upon the chair where it seemed to attract splinters. Instead, he clenched it into a fist and tapped it against his thigh in thought.   
  
“That will work, surely,” he muttered under his breath, nodding to himself. Yes, he would drive Valjean away, and then he would be left to drink himself back into oblivion and continue this combined effort of penitence and punishment.


	3. The Company You Keep

“I want to know what sustains you  
from the inside  
when all else falls away.  
  
I want to know if you can be alone  
with yourself  
and if you truly like the company you keep  
in the empty moments.”

- _The Invitation_ by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

 

* * *

 

Javert startled at the unexpected knock upon the door.   
  
He frowned and checked his watch, which Valjean had apparently been kind enough to remove from his coat-pocket and leave on the desk before he'd absconded with the coat. His frown turned somewhat bemused as he noticed the time. He had thought Valjean would drag his feet and delay his visit, not arrive earlier than he had the day before. Well, he reflected sourly, perhaps Valjean felt particularly zealous about saving his soul.   
  
Javert folded his arms against his chest. He forced himself to relax against the pillow and assume an indifferent air. His stomach refused to settle, twisting into a knot. He ignored it, and, after the prompting of a second knock, said, “Come in.” He was vaguely aware of Madame Bonnet as she bustled in with a basin and soap; he kept his gaze fixed upon Valjean.   
  
Valjean, for his part, seemed to be looking everywhere but at Javert. He put his burdens on the table and then retreated to stand by Javert’s desk. Even as Madame Bonnet closed the door behind her, Valjean began to fiddle with one of the case files, snatching up the top paper and frowning at it.   
  
“Valjean,” Javert said after a moment of silence. He frowned, for this meeting was already not going as he had planned. He deferred his prepared speech for a moment. When Valjean ignored him and continued to read the case file, Javert discarded his indifferent air. “Leave that paperwork alone. You're going to mix up the case files.”   
  
“Does it matter if I do?” Valjean answered without looking at him. His tone was matter-of-fact as he moved on to the next page. “You’ve said that you do not intend to return to your duties. Will these cases ever be solved?”   
  
Javert blinked, temporarily thrown. A few of the cases on the desk  _were_  unfinished. Now that he thought on it, he had been almost ready to make an arrest in the Berger case before Lamarque’s funeral had disrupted things. He only needed to convince Monsieur Gisquet to let him interview--  
  
He scowled, spotting the trap in Valjean’s words almost too late. He cleared his throat and dragged his gaze away from the case files, which suddenly seemed to sit there like silent accusations. “Well, some of the cases still need to be solved, of course. I-- I will see that they’re returned to the station-house so that others can handle them. Though I can't go there myself, so I would need my money--”   
  
“I could have someone come by to pick up the files and deliver them for you tomorrow,” Valjean said, his tone mild but with an underlying firmness.   
  
Javert scowled. “Fine.” He might have argued, but he was distracted, wondering how Valjean had managed to turn the conversation against him in the matter of a minute. He tried to regain control. He reviewed the speech briefly in his head before he leaned forward. “Valjean. I have been thinking,” he announced. He paused, but Valjean still refused to look at him. Pursing his lips, irritation briefly warring with his nerves, he pressed on. “I have been mistaken.”   
  
That got the desired reaction; Valjean’s gaze finally swung towards him. “Mistaken?”   
  
“Yes, I've been going about this all wrong. I have tried to distract myself from my failures with drink and laudanum. That was pure foolishness.”   
  
Valjean didn't quite smile, but his expression seemed to lighten somewhat. His eyes searched Javert’s face almost hopefully. When he spoke, it was in a low, cautious voice. “I am glad you see sense.”   
  
“Oh yes,” Javert said. He bared his teeth in a smile and waved a hand. “Those distractions are expensive and wear too much on the body. You were right about that. So I shall distract myself with the pleasures of the flesh instead.”   
  
The color and expression went from Valjean’s face. He did not give a terrific start, as Javert had almost hoped for, but instead seemed to turn to stone. Only the flush that began at his throat and crept slowly into his face revealed that he wasn't marble.   
  
After a pause, Valjean’s mouth moved soundlessly.   
  
“Did you say something?” Javert asked. He was almost enjoying Valjean’s discomfort; doubtless he would have, were it not for the small, unpleasant knot in his belly. 

“You,” Valjean said, so faintly that Javert was forced to lean further forward to hear him. He stopped, his lips moving silently once more. His cravat bobbed as he swallowed. “Javert, I don’t-- what are you saying--” He faltered once more. This time he wetted his lips with his tongue, a distracting flash of pink.   
  
Javert briefly lost his train of thought. Valjean said nothing more, however, and just gaped at him. After a moment Javert remembered what he had been about to say.  “Ah, but perhaps you mistake my meaning,” he said. He assumed a soothing tone, as one would use on an upset child, and waved his hand to flick away Valjean’s concerns. “Calm yourself, Valjean. When I spoke of the pleasures of the flesh, I did not mean  _yours_.”

A harsh, unplanned laugh escaped him, scraping its way out of his throat, but Valjean barely twitched. “No, you made your disinterest quite plain. I will find someone else to provide a decent distraction. I don't think it will be so difficult. This sort of thing is not illegal, you know, and there are places in Paris where you can enjoy yourself if you have the inclination. We-- that is, the police keep an eye on these places in case of possible trouble. In fact,” he added with some satisfaction, “I believe there is such a place not three streets over. Wine and laudanum are costly company, but these men do not charge so much as a sou for a kiss--”   
  
Valjean made a strange choking sound. At some point during Javert’s speech he had unbent enough to raise his hands to his face. Javert couldn't make out his expression. Still, his trembling hands did not hide the redness of his face or the throbbing vein in his forehead.  
  
Javert eyed the vein with a rising sense of exasperation and perhaps a hint of concern. He wanted Valjean gone. He didn't want him to suffer an apoplexy. Why wasn't Valjean pacing about the room as he had the day before, or, at the very least, looking longingly towards the door? Instead he stood there like a lump, his white head bowed, twitching as though every word pinched at him.   
  
Javert gritted his teeth, mentally reviewing the rest of his speech. He discarded it, for he suspected that further details about the place would only keep Valjean rooted to the spot in pure horror. He pursed his lips in dissatisfaction. So much for his plan! “But enough,” he found himself saying, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. “The topic distresses you. We shall not speak further on it.” He waved his hand at the basins and the bandages, and added a trifle waspishly, “Let us get this business over with. Then you can go away to pray for the salvation of my soul, and I can try my hand at becoming a libertine.”   
  
Valjean finally pulled his hands away from his face at that, in order to give Javert a long, incredulous look. Then he turned that same look upon the basins and the bandages, staring at them almost as though he had never seen such things before. His lips thinned. A grimace passed over his face. “I do not--”  
  
“Unless you would prefer to go now,” Javert interrupted, seizing upon Valjean’s hesitation. He kept the hope from his voice, ignoring the knot in his stomach that continued to twist ever tighter. “The doctor didn't remark on my bandaging my own throat, so it seems I can do it myself without any damage to my wrists. You aren't needed. You can leave.”   
  
He had said too much, he realized, over-played his hand, for as soon as the last word fell from his lips, Valjean's face swung back towards him, his eyes narrowing. The stunned, stupid look was gone, replaced by a disturbingly canny one.   
  
“Ah,” Valjean said, thoughtfully.   
  
Javert shifted uneasily. He did not like that pensive tone, or the speculative gleam in Valjean’s eyes, or the fact that Valjean seemed calm once more, his face now a more natural color. Javert tugged at his whiskers before he could consider the nervous gesture, and then forced his hand into his lap. “What?” he snapped when Valjean continued to study him.   
  
“I see what you are doing,” Valjean said slowly. "You're trying to drive me away."   
  
Javert mentally cursed. “I am trying to  _enlighten_  you," he said through gritted teeth. "You persist in calling me a good man. I was explaining how I am not.” 

Valjean just looked at Javert for a moment. The speculative look had not left his eyes. In fact, it seemed to have intensified, as though Valjean believed he might be able to peer into Javert’s head and read his innermost thoughts if he only looked hard enough.

At last Valjean squared his shoulders and lifted his chin almost in challenge. “Well, your efforts won't work,” he said. His voice was calm, his expression obstinate. “I will not flee or consider you dissolute simply because you insist on talking about--” His self-assurance faltered then, some of the color returning to his face. He fiddled with his cravat as though he found it suddenly too tight. He managed to tug it all out of shape. "About--" 

Javert, whose mood had turned sullen as he had watched the likelihood that Valjean might actually leave dwindle to nothing, lashed out with a low, mocking laugh. “You cannot even say it!” 

Valjean's expression grew mulish, embarrassment and irritation warring for domination of his features. “That is beside the point,” he said stiffly.

Javert laughed again. He couldn't keep his hands from clenching into frustrated fists in his lap; he thrust them under his arms, folding his arms against his chest. So Valjean was going to play the martyr after all and endure obvious discomfort to see that Javert's wounds were properly tended. He grew angrier at the thought. “Oh yes," he sneered, "you are perfectly fine knowing that I may leave here as soon as you are finished and go to that place and seek out--”

"Javert," Valjean said. His ears had gone pink again. "Will you stop being so difficult and let me speak?"

"Speak? Stammer, you mean."

Valjean ignored this muttered comment. "Even if I thought you truly intended to go to that-- that place after I left, which I do not, I would remind you that you are still healing and that-- that you should not aggravate--" He paused, his throat working once more. "Well. I suppose it doesn't matter. You would be turned away at the door, surely."

Javert frowned. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, you are--" Valjean made a vague gesture towards Javert's face.

Javert's frown deepened and he was half-insulted before he touched his jaw and realized what Valjean meant. He had not shaved in nearly a week; doubtless he looked like some wild animal. He pursed his lips. "Ah, I take your meaning. But that's an easy thing to fix. I need only shave."

Valjean looked skeptical. "They would accept you in your shirtsleeves?" 

"Well, I will-- I will borrow a coat from Monsieur Bonnet," Javert said, floundering a little. In truth, he'd forgotten that Valjean still had his coats.

A noise escaped Valjean that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

Javert narrowed his eyes. While it was true that Monsieur Bonnet was a full head shorter than Javert and not quite as broad in the shoulders, surely he would not look _that_ ridiculous. He searched Valjean's expression and found amusement and almost patronizing disbelief there. He recalled Valjean's earlier words. So Valjean thought he was bluffing.

Well, Javert would prove to him that he wasn't. He unfolded his arms and threw back the covers. He rose to his feet, careful not to stand too quickly. Doubtless Valjean would seize upon any sign of weakness to force him back into bed.

"Javert, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to ask Madame Bonnet to prepare some more water so I can shave," Javert said.   

"Javert!" said Valjean, almost laughing again, though now Javert was pleased to hear a hint of uncertainty in his voice. "You are not going to that place."

Javert drew back his lips and smiled. "You have no say in the matter." He wished the room was not so small; he would have to squeeze past Valjean to get to the door. His smile became bared teeth. "I'll be back in a moment."

Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised that Valjean might try to stop him, but he still startled when Valjean caught him by the arm, that warm hand clamping tightly around his elbow.

"Javert, you are not-- you cannot be serious."

With some effort, Javert raised his eyes from Valjean's hand to the other man's face. "If nothing else, Valjean, I am not yet wholly a liar," he said, his throat strangely tight. 

“I didn't mean--” Valjean stopped and took in a deep breath. The amusement and disbelief was gone, replaced by consternation. The vein was not yet throbbing again in his forehead, but Javert suspected it would return, given time. "Javert," he said weakly. "You truly intend to…?" His hand flexed upon Javert's arm as he trailed off; Javert could feel the press of his fingernails through his sleeve, tiny pinpricks of discomfort.

It was difficult to think, much less speak. The knot in Javert’s belly seemed turned to stone, a hard weight pinning him down as surely as Valjean’s grip did. He forced words past dry lips, striving for an exasperated tone. "Well, what’s to stop me?” When Valjean only stared at him, Javert tried to shake off his hand. “Let go of me, Valjean.”

Valjean ignored his efforts, just frowned as he searched Javert’s expression. What Valjean was looking for, Javert wasn’t quite certain, but the penetrating look made him acutely aware that he was in his shirtsleeves, trousers, and stockings, and that he had not shaved or combed his hair in days.  

“Let go,” he said again, the command slightly hoarse. He grimaced. He loathed the way that Valjean’s touch muddled his thoughts and made his body turn traitor. He tried to shake Valjean off again, and growled under his breath when Valjean merely tightened his grip. He wished, with a terrible viciousness, that Valjean _would_ suffer an apoplexy. At least then he might release him. Javert’s mouth opened of its own volition, spat out, “Why shouldn't I go there, if I wish to? Why shouldn’t I seek out someone’s company? Why shouldn’t I invite him to one of the private rooms they have in those places? Why shouldn’t I kiss him? Why shouldn’t I--”

Valjean’s other hand clamped over Javert’s mouth.

For a moment, Javert could not conceive it, that Valjean had actually covered his mouth with his hand to silence him. His thoughts scattered, fury replaced by bafflement, his mind blissfully blank for a few seconds before comprehension dawned. He turned his incredulous gaze away from Valjean’s hand to study Valjean’s flustered expression.

Strangely, Valjean looked hunted, as though their roles were reversed and it was Javert who had hold of him. There were splotches of color on his face, and his ears had regained their pink shade. “Will you stop talking?” he said, voice low and almost pleading.

Javert let his raised eyebrows speak for him, and Valjean grimaced, seeming to realize the absurdity of his request.

“Will you stop talking about this, at least?” Valjean amended.

Javert tried to gather his scattered thoughts. It was difficult to do with Valjean’s hand still pressed against his mouth, his fingers still curled around Javert’s elbow. Valjean’s skin was distractingly warm. After a moment, Javert managed a nod of agreement.

Valjean released him, and then retreated backwards so hastily that he bumped against the desk. One of the case files slid off the surface and fell to the floor with a quiet thump, but Valjean didn’t so much as glance at it. He watched Javert with a wary look instead, as though he thought Javert liable to explode. “I’m sorry, I just-- you kept talking, and I--”  

“Panicked like a scandalized aunt?” Javert suggested, not quite scornfully. He found himself rubbing at his mouth where he could still feel the press of Valjean’s hand. He lowered his hand with a scowl, though he wasn't certain who he was more irritated with, himself or Valjean. “May I pass to speak with Madame Bonnet, or are you going to grab me again?”

“No,” Valjean said, though his tone was unconvincing. His gaze darted between Javert and the door. His brow furrowed and his mouth pursed. He looked almost ill. “Are you really going…?”

Javert did not take pity on him, precisely. Still, the idea of going to that place in Monsieur Bonnet’s too-small coat where he was certain to attract strange looks rather than actual interest was unappealing, even if doing so apparently ensured Valjean would go mad. And perhaps Valjean might actually let him get to the door if he relented. He scratched at his chin and smirked faintly. “Not tonight, at least. But I do need to shave.”

Valjean hid his relief poorly. A faint, mollified smile touched his lips and wavered there uncertainly. He rubbed at the back of his neck and hesitated as though he wished to say something. Instead he took another step back, this one careful, so that Javert had an unimpeded path to the door and no more case files were knocked to the floor.   
  
Javert glanced towards his boots, for he disliked the idea of invading the kitchen in his stockings and scandalizing Madame Bonnet, but if he wasted a minute or two to put on his boots, there was the risk of Valjean changing his mind and insisting that Javert return to bed.   
  
Madame Bonnet looked up from where she was washing dishes, blinking in surprise as he entered the kitchen. A look of concern stamped itself upon her features and she smiled anxiously. “Inspector Javert! It is good to see you on your feet again, monsieur. But is something the matter?” She hesitated. A shadow passed over her face, and he wondered if she was remembering his bout with unconsciousness. “Should you be up? You are still recovering….”   
  
Javert didn't purse his lips, though it seemed both his portress and Valjean wanted to fuss too much about his injuries. Could they really not see the wounds were minor? It was only neglect of the wounds and a combination of too much drinking and too little food that had weakened him to the point of collapse. He cleared his throat and remarked a trifle dryly, “I think I can manage walking to and from the kitchen, madame. I came to see if you have some more water to spare. I intend to shave.”   
  
“Shave?” Much to his surprise, the woman looked relieved by this. Did she consider his desire to shave indicative of his improving health? He supposed that she could not have failed to observe over the years his propensity towards cleanliness and neatness. “I can heat a kettle for you if you’ll just give me a few minutes.”  
  
Javert raised an eyebrow. “I'm perfectly fine with cold water,” he said. He wouldn't have turned warm water away if there had been some left over, but actually heating water simply for shaving had always seemed like a foolish indulgence. Especially when he could easily shave and look presentable with cold water and soap; most days, he did not even need a mirror. He frowned momentarily and scratched at the beard that had formed over the past six days. Well, he would need a mirror today.   
  
“Very well,” Madame Bonnet said, though she frowned. “I’ll fetch some more water and bring it up to you. Did you need anything else?”   
  
“No-- wait. Yes. Did the washerwoman bring back my laundry while I was….”  _Drinking my way though Paris_ , he was about to finish, but found he could not. “While I was away?” he concluded.   
  
“Yes, monsieur.” Madame Bonnet looked a little embarrassed. She rubbed her hands upon her apron, quick, agitated movements. “When you didn't return after the trouble, I took the liberty of folding your laundry myself and putting it away. Your towels are in the armoire. I know you are a private man, monsieur, and I assure you I only--”   
  
Javert waved off her apology. Perhaps in the past he might have been angry at her entering his room while he was gone, but that was before Valjean had made off with both his coats and his pocket-book. Her sin was minor compared to that. “Do not worry about it, madame. The towels are in the armoire, you said?”   
  
When Javert returned to his room, he found that Valjean had picked up the case file he had knocked to the floor and was seemingly engrossed in it. “You shouldn’t be looking at that,” he remarked.  
  
Valjean startled and looked guilty. “I was just going to put the file back together, and then I started reading-- this gang is believed to have robbed  _fifty_  houses in the span of a year?”   
  
Javert’s mouth twisted. “Ah, the Montmartre gang. Yes, they have been causing quite some trouble. Thankfully, so far they haven't turned violent, for they always hit houses when the owners are out. Though I suspect it is only a matter of time before--” He caught himself and scowled. He muttered, “Never mind. I only hope Monsieur le Prefect doesn’t give the case to Baudin for he’ll surely botch it.”   
  
Irritated by the reminder of cases that he would never solve, Javert stalked over to the armoire, yanking out the towels and unearthing his shaving kit. He had a small mirror somewhere. His scowl deepened as he tried to remember where he had put it. Then he turned back towards Valjean and realized he had another, more immediate problem. “Wonderful,” he muttered under his breath.   
  
“Is something wrong?” Valjean asked, his brow creasing slightly in concern.   
  
“I seem to have run out of surfaces,” Javert said dryly, gesturing at his case files on his desk, the basins on his bedside table, and everything else covering the surfaces. Annoyingly, Valjean looked a little amused by this. Javert studied the clutter for a moment and then resolved the issue by moving the other basins temporarily to the floor. By the time he had located his mirror, which was buried under one of the case files, Madame Bonnet had come and gone, leaving the latest basin of water and soap. Javert settled into the rote motions of his shaving routine, stropping the razor with quick, brisk movements. It would have been relaxing, resuming his routine, had it not been for the weight of Valjean’s gaze upon him, ever-present and irritating.   
  
He had just made the first pass of his razor across his cheek when Valjean spoke. “You will miss it, surely.”   
  
Javert’s hand paused, poised to make a second stroke. He raised an eyebrow at Valjean, who frowned earnestly at him; then he resumed shaving in pointed silence, not exactly hopeful that Valjean would take the hint.   
  
Indeed, Valjean seemed determined to attempt a conversation that would surely go no better than the previous one. He continued, “That Montmartre gang-- you seemed quite certain that this Baudin will be unable to catch them. Surely you will regret not arresting this gang yourself. Especially if they harm someone, as you said you suspect they will--”   
  
Javert, who had been listening with growing exasperation, set down his razor. “I didn't realize you could now read my innermost thoughts and feelings. That is quite a feat!” he said, not bothering to disguise his sarcasm. He didn't sneer though he wanted to, his face feeling strange with the foam coating his skin. “And if you think to take advantage and prattle at me while I am busy shaving, I will remind you that I can simply delay shaving for a minute or two.”   
  
Valjean only looked even more earnest. He all but spread his hands imploringly; indeed, they twitched at his sides as though he wished to do precisely that. “I don't mean to imply I know what you are thinking, but from what I observed in Montreuil-sur-Mur--” He faltered briefly at Javert’s dark laughter, a brief flush coloring his face, but continued stubbornly, “But from what I observed, you devoted yourself to keeping the peace and protecting the people of Montreuil-sur-Mur--" He checked himself. "Wouldn't you feel as though you were shirking your duty in protecting the people of Paris should you resign?”   
  
Javert scowled. “We are not having this argument again, Valjean.” Had one time not been enough? He remembered Valjean’s ridiculous suggestion to punish himself by continuing to work as an inspector, aware of his unworthiness. "And besides, I've already resigned."   
  
Valjean ignored the warning note in his voice. “From what Madame Bonnet tells me, Monsieur Chabouillet didn't understand your letter to be a resignation. And we will continue this conversation until you finally see sense.”  
  
“Until  _I_  see sense?” Javert scoffed. He didn't let himself look at the case files or look in Valjean’s direction, though his stomach roiled. He fiddled with the razor instead, turning the handle over in his hand and watching how the blade caught the light. He remarked in a low, aggravated mutter, “If anyone is being ridiculous here, it is you. You seem to think it is sensible for me to continue working for the police, knowing I have compromised my honor and neglected my duty in allowing you to go free.”   
  
“Javert--” Valjean had the audacity to sound exasperated.   
  
Javert glowered. “No, Valjean. I've told you, I deserve punish--”   
  
" _Enough_ ," Valjean said. He hadn't raised his voice, but there was a fierceness in his voice that made Javert shudder before he could suppress his reaction. Javert looked up to find Valjean advancing upon him, his expression set. "Enough of this talk of punishment."

“ _You_  have no right to sound angry, Valjean. You're the one who insists having on this ridiculous conversation,” Javert said. He did not retreat, though he wanted to as Valjean drew closer, not quite invading Javert’s space but skirting the edges of it. “But by all means, let us continue talking in circles.”   
  
Valjean exhaled; it was a loud, aggravated sound. He carried his frustration in his hunched shoulders and tight jaw. He took in a slow breath. Slowly, as though with effort, his shoulders relaxed. His expression remained determined however; Javert braced himself for whatever misguided inanity Valjean was about to utter. 

“You say we are talking in circles. Let us try another track, then,” Valjean said. His tone changed and turned patronizingly slow, as though Valjean felt the wine and laudanum had truly addled Javert’s wits and Valjean must speak as to a simpleton to be understood. “Let us look at your future and how this punishment will play out. You resign from the police. You now have no occupation. You've enough money saved to pay for another month or two’s rent, and then what? Madame Bonnet must evict you, unless you take up some other job that doesn’t suit you.” Valjean’s expression twisted. “Or no, perhaps you'll let yourself be evicted and live on the streets.”   
  
Javert laughed darkly even as his stomach sank a little at the damnable truth of Valjean’s words. He tried to think of a suitable response and found none, for he hadn't considered his future since that night upon the parapet. It had seemed like such an insignificant thing, such a minor concern compared to the convictions that he could not arrest Valjean, that he had been ignoring a law higher than man’s law all his life, that he no longer deserved his position as inspector.   
  
Now Javert tried to picture his future and came up with nothing. Before, he had imagined working until his death or until they forced him to retire, whichever came first, and then, if it were the latter, living on his savings and what small pension the government could afford to provide. Now that option was gone, and the future stretched out before him as a blank slate. Perhaps he could take another job, but when he tried to think of possibilities, his mind offered him no alternatives. He shifted, an uneasy movement. His body betrayed him again, his gaze drawn towards the case files like a month to a flame. His stomach wouldn't settle, his chest too tight.   
  
“I will--” he began, and stopped, for he could not think of how to answer.   
  
Valjean followed his line of sight, and his expression shifted a little, his shoulders relaxing minutely as though he had taken this as an admission on Javert's part.  
  
Javert licked his lips and grimaced as he accidentally tasted foam. He tried to come up with a proper response or at least a remark that might distract Valjean until he could come up with something to prove Valjean wrong and wipe the faint satisfaction from his face. “Well, I have played the role of a beggar before. Why not become one in earnest?” he muttered.   
  
For a moment the attempt to stall and divert Valjean seemed to work; Valjean looked puzzled, his forehead creasing. Then comprehension flickered across his face and chased the satisfaction from his features. “You would live on the streets then, and accept charity?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Javert said. He was irritated by the thought. His lip curled as he thought of himself on the street, begging for alms. Doubtless Valjean would find him even there, to press a five-franc piece on him every now and then. He narrowed his eyes. “I was not being serious. I'll simply find another occupation.”   
  
“Ah, yes, you have arms. You can work the fields.” There was a hint of sarcasm in the words, along with a strange familiarity, as though Javert had heard those words before. When he stared, Valjean’s frown deepened. “You said as much to me once before. I even think you believed it then. But that was a long time ago, and Paris does not have many fields for you to work. What will you do instead of police-work?”   
  
It took another moment for Javert to remember where and when he had said such a thing to Valjean. Then he snorted. “I will find something,” he said evasively. “I have three months before I am out of money. I can surely find something before then.”

“Something?” Valjean said. He wore a small smile now, one that irritated Javert, for the pleased curve of his lips suggested Valjean thought that he had won the argument. “You shall have to be more specific than that. Name an occupation you might try.”   
  
Since Javert could still think of nothing suitable, he frowned and countered with a rather feeble, “Why should I? It is none of your business what I do.” He scowled when Valjean’s smile turned openly triumphant. Javert took up the razor again, focusing his attention upon the mirror as he made another pass at his jaw. This time he ignored the weight of Valjean’s gaze, running the blade with slow deliberation against his skin.   
  
“Is my question really so unreasonable?” Valjean said, almost amused. “I only ask for one occupation.”   
  
Despite his best efforts to keep his expression unmoved by Valjean’s words, Javert pursed his lips in irritation. There was immediately a stinging pain on his jaw, the razor nipping at his skin. He drew the razor away from his face with a muttered curse, and watched in mild annoyance as a small, shallow cut opened up on his jaw. The red stood out starkly from amid the white foam.   
  
“Oh,” Valjean said, chagrined. When Javert glanced at him, Valjean was frowning and looking far more upset than a minor cut warranted.   
  
“Don't make that face, Valjean. I’ve hardly slit my throat.”   
  
Valjean’s expression clouded. Javert knew that he must be thinking of Javert’s previous remarks about suicide.   
  
Javert sighed, exasperated. “I will live,” he assured Valjean. When Valjean still looked troubled, he added, “It's a small cut. I doubt it will even scar.” He pressed his fingertips to the cut, trying to staunch the bleeding. He was suddenly half-blinded by white; it took him a moment to realize that Valjean had thrust a handkerchief in front of his face. He stared at it in consternation, taken aback. “It will probably stain and have to be thrown away,” he finally said, adjusting his weight so that he leaned away from the handkerchief. He tried to remember where he had left his own. His lips twisted. Doubtless it had been in his coat pocket and therefore far out of reach.   
  
“Cosette keeps me well-supplied with handkerchiefs,” Valjean said evenly. He did not withdraw. The handkerchief remained in Javert’s line of sight, a challenge.   
  
After a few seconds, Javert sighed and took it. Their hands didn't touch, and Javert was almost grateful when Valjean took a step back. The handkerchief was made of soft fabric. He didn't know much of embroidery, his only talent with a needle the ability to mend the occasional tear in his clothes, but the girl had skillfully stitched an unfamiliar flower in the corner. He turned the folded handkerchief over so that the flower would be well away from the blood, just in case the handkerchief could be salvaged. Then he pressed it against the cut.  
  
Javert caught sight of himself in the mirror as he did so. He grimaced again. One side of his face was covered in foam; the other, obscured by the handkerchief. The bandages made for an odd sort of cravat upon his neck, and his hair stuck up in all directions. He wondered, sourly, how he must appear to Valjean. In Montreuil-sur-Mur, Javert had been fastidiously neat, his shirt pressed, his coat unwrinkled, his buttons shining, a far cry from the wreck that now reflected back at him.   
  
“Javert.”  
  
Javert realized he had been pressing the handkerchief so hard against his cheek that his fingers were almost numb. He drew the fabric away from the cut and studied the injury. When no blood welled, he nodded in satisfaction. “There, you see? I told you it was a small thing.”   
  
“Javert,” Valjean said again. It was a tone Javert was beginning to grow too familiar with, one that forewarned another speech.   
  
The tone played upon his already frayed temper, and Javert had to bite back a frustrated snarl. “Enough,” he said. It took a great effort to keep his voice even. “I'll think on your question and have an answer for you tomorrow.”   
  
A crease appeared in Valjean’s forehead, but whatever he saw in Javert’s expression made him dip his chin in agreement. “Very well,” he said, and then clasped his hands behind his back and fell silent. In fact, Valjean remained quiet, almost suspiciously so. His reserved gaze was fixed pensively upon Javert as Javert continued to shave. Several times Valjean opened his mouth to speak, and then seemed to reconsider.   
  
He only roused himself when Javert began to wipe the razor dry. “Your wounds still need to be cleaned and re-bandaged.”   
  
Javert paused, frowning. He stalled for a moment, examining his face carefully in the mirror to make certain he hadn’t missed a spot. Satisfied that he hadn’t, he turned his attention to Valjean’s remark. Surely after everything that had occurred, Valjean would not insist.... Javert glanced over and studied the determined set to Valjean’s shoulders. Ah, but of course he would. Javert pursed his lips. “I did manage to do the bandages around my throat without invoking the doctor’s wrath, if you recall,” he pointed out.   
  
“That was for your throat, which seems less strenuous than bandaging your wrists,” Valjean said. “Let me see to your wrists at least.”   
  
The low, almost meek way Valjean spoke the last sentence seemed like a trick somehow, though Javert couldn't quite see the trap. He narrowed his eyes, but Valjean’s reasoning was sound. He considered arguing, but the idea wearied him. Besides, the sooner his wrists were seen to, the sooner Valjean would leave and Javert could concentrate on identifying a profession to throw in his face tomorrow. “Very well, he said. “But I will speak to the doctor tomorrow and see when he thinks I'll be able to manage my wrists as well.”   
  
Valjean’s mouth twisted briefly at that, but he didn't argue, just as Javert didn't let his gaze linger on Valjean’s hands and their quick, efficient movements. He focused his eyes instead on the bed-covers as Valjean worked.   
  
Once Valjean was finished and Javert had bandaged his throat, Valjean made his excuses, muttering something about Cosette. His hand on the doorknob, he paused. He didn't look towards Javert, so Javert could not see his face, but his tone was matter-of-fact.   
  
“I will send someone tomorrow to fetch the case files and deliver them to your station-house, if you still wish it.”   
  
If he still wished it? Had Valjean honestly thought he would change his mind simply because he could not instantly imagine another suitable occupation? “I do,” Javert said shortly.   
  
He thought Valjean’s shoulders started to slump, but perhaps it was just his imagination, for a second later Valjean’s shoulders were unbowed, his voice still calm. “I shall send someone in the morning then.”   
  
“Good,” Javert said, and then, rather grudgingly, “Thank you.” He was not quite surprised when Valjean barely acknowledged the expression of gratitude, only moved his head a little in what might have been a nod and went out.  
  
The room was almost unbearably silent after the click of the door. With Valjean’s absence, Javert found his mind inclined to brood over the argument. He only realized he'd begun to pace when his hip collided with the chair. A dull pain blossomed from his hip and spread up his side. He grimaced, first at his own foolishness, then when he found himself gazing at the case files.   
  
Valjean had left the Montmartre case file open, though whether that was by accident or as means of temptation, Javert wasn’t certain. A witness statement was on top. The man lived across the street from one of the robberies; he had seen a strange woman departing the house while the family had been at a party. Javert frowned at it. There had been something off about the witness, though he hadn't had a reason to question the man further other than his own clamoring instincts; propriety had kept him from voicing his suspicions to his fellow officers.   
  
Still, he was no longer an inspector. He could say what he wished. His stomach roiled, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. Had he not done so already, with his letter to the Prefect?   
  
He sat down and took up his pen. With careful deliberation, he began to write down his suspicions. After that, it seemed only sensible to continue jotting down further observations and suggestions. If M. Gisquet gave the case to Baudin, perhaps these notes would prevent him from botching the case.   
  
His head bowed over the desk, he kept writing.


	4. The More Alternatives

“The more alternatives, the more difficult the choice."

\- Abbe D'Allainval

 

* * *

 

Javert woke suddenly. His head pounded. It was as though he had unearthed and drunk one of Monsieur Bonnet’s wine bottles rather than stayed up half the night jotting down further observations and suggestions. After a moment, he groggily realized that it wasn't his head, but rather someone knocking sharply at the door.   
  
“Javert!”  
  
The familiar voice was like being doused with ice-cold water. The drowsiness that clouded Javert’s brain evaporated, and he almost fell off his bed as he jerked upright. He stared wildly at the door. What the devil was Monsieur Chabouillet doing here?   
  
“Javert!” Chabouillet said again, his voice muffled.   
  
Javert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Chabouillet’s name stuck in his throat and strangled him into silence. He ran his hands hurriedly through his hair in an attempt to smooth it into some semblance of order. He was abruptly, absurdly grateful that at least Valjean had goaded him into shaving yesterday so that he didn't look quite so pathetic.  
  
Then the door opened and Chabouillet stepped inside to frown at him. His round face was set in almost forbidding lines; concern turned his usual cheerful countenance harsh. “Javert,” he said, striding quickly over to the end of Javert’s bed and blinking owlishly at him. “Well,” he said after a few seconds. His lips twisted as his gaze flicked towards the bandages and lingered there. “You don't seem to be at death’s door. I confess that the note had me thinking the worst.”   
  
“The note?” Javert said. The words came out low and scratchy. He caught sight of Madame Bonnet hovering in the doorway. When she noticed his gaze, she offered him a half-apologetic look and then stepped back, closing the door to give them some semblance of privacy. Javert cleared his throat. “I sent no note, Monsieur Chabouillet.”   
  
“That much was obvious,” said Chabouillet a trifle dryly. He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and offered it to him.  
  
It took Javert a few seconds to unfold the paper, for his fingers were inclined to shake. It took a great effort to keep the paper from rattling before Chabouillet’s intent gaze. The note had been written in an unfamiliar hand. It said, simply, that a concerned gentleman had discovered Inspector Javert wandering the streets of Paris, apparently overcome by injuries sustained during the recent insurgency. The inspector was now recuperating and could be found at his lodgings.   
  
It was unsigned, but Javert had no doubt who had penned the missive. The note crumpled under his fingers as his hand curled into a fist. When he laughed, it rang oddly in his ears. Javert thought over the day before, how Valjean’s shoulders had slumped and then firmed as though he’d come to a decision. Really, he should have known better than to trust Valjean’s silence! His anger felt like a strange, faraway thing.   
  
“Javert,” he thought Chabouillet said, but another burst of laughter drowned out any other words.   
  
Javert shook his head to clear it, but that did nothing other than to make him dizzy. After a moment, he managed to get his laughter under control. “I see how you knew I was here, monsieur. But why have you come?” he asked as politely as he could manage. His voice sounded as distant as his anger.   
  
Chabouillet watched him with a frown. There was an unreadable expression in his narrowed eyes. “I came to see how you were faring and learn when you might be able to return to your post.” The words were said slowly, almost cautiously.   
  
They wrenched Javert somewhat loose from his distant rage. He blinked, running his tongue over his dry lips, and tried to think, though his mind moved sluggishly. “But surely you received my letter,” he said after last.   
  
Chabouillet’s brow wrinkled and then cleared. “Ah, are you worried about that letter you wrote regarding the prisons? Don't trouble yourself over that, Javert.” Chabouillet flicked his hand, as though dismissing any further concerns. “Though Gisquet will be a trifle cool to you for a time, I'm afraid, for he was insulted by the letter. He took it at worst a condemnation of the prisons and at best a poor jest. But once I received today's note, I convinced him that it was just the ramblings of an ill man. The letter earned you no friends, but you haven't been dismissed.”

Chabouillet’s attempts at reassurance took a moment to sink in, and then Javert managed a small shake of his head. “That isn't-- the letter was my resignation.”  
  
The harsh lines in Chabouillet’s face were replaced by a look of amusement and incredulity. “ _Resignation_? Ah yes, of course. I don't know how I could have missed something so obvious, despite your letter not including a single word about quitting.” He tilted his head and studied Javert for a moment. His amusement left as quickly as it had come; his expression shifted to one Javert couldn't define despite the years he had known the other man. A rueful smile turned up one corner of Chabouillet's mouth. “Javert, you are as likely to resign as I am. Even if you attempt it, you'll find yourself half-mad from boredom within the month, if not the week.”   
  
If Javert hadn't been so dazed, he might have offered a rueful smile in return, for it was often remarked that Chabouillet was the immovable bedrock of the police. Most assumed that he would die at the age of ninety or so at his desk. The very idea of forcing Chabouillet to retire seemed ludicrous-- not even prefects whose ire Chabouillet had invoked had ever suggested retirement.   
  
“Monsieur,” Javert began. His mouth was still dry. He wished for water, but the jug was empty and Madame Bonnet had not yet been in to re-fill it. He wetted his lips again and resisted the urge to fiddle with the bedcovers. “I do not deserve my post.”   
  
Chabouillet stared at him as though he’d grown a second head. “What are you on about, Javert? Is this because you were captured by the insurgents and held prisoner? Good God, man, there was no way to know someone in that group would recognize you! We'd thought that particular barricade would be comprised of students. How could anyone have anticipated a _gamin_ recognizing you?”

“No, that isn't why I--” Javert began, and then stopped. Some of his stupor lifted. He shook his head again, and this time the gesture cleared his thoughts. Oh, Valjean had thought this through before he’d sent that note. He’d known Javert could not and would not turn him over to Chabouillet. But what other reason could Javert truthfully offer for Chabouillet so that his resignation would be accepted? Javert wouldn't lie, but he couldn't tell the truth, either.   
  
Javert passed a hand over his face. He laughed again, though this one was low and mirthless. Valjean’s trap was very neat indeed. “I don't know how to convince you that I cannot continue as an inspector.”   
  
“Because it is nonsense,” said Chabouillet. He dismissed Javert’s words with another wave of his hand. “Let me try and guess what has caused this self-doubt of yours. Do you consider yourself a failure for not talking the insurgents out of their stupidity? Pray do not let their deaths sour you so. You cannot reason with fools.” He folded his arms against his chest and nodded, seemingly to himself. “You need to rest a few more days. That's all.” Another frown temporarily furrowed his brow. He hesitated. “Unless your injuries are worse than I was led to believe….”   
  
“No, my injuries are as you see them,” Javert was forced to admit. “But….”  
  
He trailed off as Chabouillet moved over to the desk and began examining the case files. “Ah, good, you _do_ have the Montmartre case file. I’d hoped you would,” Chabouillet muttered under his breath. “And you’ve been working on it, I see,” he added, a trifle dryly. “Pascal will be grateful.”   
  
“Pascal?” Javert asked. His fury at Valjean was briefly forgotten as he leaned forward. “Has there been another robbery then?”   
  
Chabouillet’s expression soured. “Last night. The de Varley family’s house in Saint Germain. They'd been out celebrating the daughter’s birthday at Madame de Varley’s father’s house.”

“And?” Javert pressed, for Chabouillet looked unhappier than usual at the gang's activities.   
  
“Around midnight, Monsieur de Varley realized he'd left the child’s present at home. He sent one of his father-in-law’s servants to fetch it.”  
  
“Is the man dead?”  
  
“Alive, but barely," Chabouillet said grimly. "He will be blind in one eye, and the doctors don't know if he will be able to use the one hand again.”  
  
Javert hissed through his teeth. He scowled and slapped the palm of his hand against the bedspread. “I told you it was only a matter of time.” 

“So you did,” Chabouillet agreed. “But the gang seems comprised of ghosts. No one sees them enter the houses, no one sees them leave. If the gift hadn't been forgotten, this robbery would have been the same as the others.”   
  
“Is the servant conscious? Has he been questioned yet? If he can describe even one of the gang, we can--” Javert faltered, recalling his resignation only when Chabouillet’s lips twitched briefly with amusement.   
  
“Half-mad by the end of the week, I think,” he thought Chabouillet muttered. Then the older man cleared his throat. “The gang ensured that we couldn't, at least not immediately. His jaw is broken so he cannot speak, and they smashed both hands so he cannot write. It will take time to get answers from him.”  
  
“Damn,” Javert said feelingly. He forced himself to settle against his pillow and ignored the sudden restlessness that welled up within him. He folded his arms against his chest. Pascal was a good sort. Still, he was uncomfortable dealing with the aristocracy, being the son of a farmer and his wife. Javert had come from even lower means, but he could pay the aristocracy due deference and not be overwhelmed. No, he thought, Pascal wouldn't be grateful to have this case land in his lap. “Pascal must be at his wit’s end.”   
  
“If he hasn't torn out the last of his hair in agitation by the end of the month, I shall owe Girard five francs,” Chabouillet said. Javert was uncertain if it was a jest. “I suspect he'll pore over the file and your notes and then come to beg you for assistance. This despite knowing that you are ill.” His eyes traveled slowly over Javert once more. What little amusement that had crept into his face when remarking about his bet with Girard vanished.   
  
Javert wondered what bothered him the most. Was it Javert's injuries? They doubtless reminded Chabouillet of the insurrection. Was it Javert’s pallor? He must look like a ghost from lack of sun. Or was it perhaps his hair? It was badly in want of a cut, something Chabouillet would find worryingly unlike him. His head pounded. Resentment for Valjean rekindled in his chest, though he kept his expression calm and his tone even as he corrected Chabouillet. “Even though I am ill and have retired, you mean.”   
  
Chabouillet pursed his lips. “Do you still persist in that nonsense? Javert, you've given me no reason that you are unfit for your post.”   
  
Javert wasn't tempted to turn Valjean over to Chabouillet, though he found himself wishing he was. He racked his brain for a decent excuse, and then straightened a little as he found one. “The concerned gentleman lied to you in the note. He didn't find me wandering the streets overcome by my injuries,” he said, stumbling over the words in his urgency. “He found me drunk and nearly passed out in the street.”  
  
“Drunk,” Chabouillet echoed. When Javert looked at him, Chabouillet looked blank. Surely Chabouillet’s empty expression meant displeasure.   
  
Javert pressed on. “After I left the letter for Monsieur Gisquet, I drank my way through several wine-shops before-- before the gentleman brought me back here. You see? I have disgraced my position. I am unfit for duty.”  
  
Chabouillet’s response, when it came, was not what Javert expected. “And do you intend to resume drinking?”   
  
Javert stared. His heart began to sink a little, for Chabouillet’s tone was sarcastic. “What?”  
  
Chabouillet waved a hand almost impatiently. “You don't smell of alcohol. I see no wine bottles littering the floor. Moreover, you've been strange today, but I don't think you are intoxicated. Will you become a drunkard?”   
  
“No, but--”  
  
“Then I don't see the problem. You were overcome by recent events. Little wonder,” Chabouillet continued heatedly, “when you were captured and threatened by insurgents. You saw them and national guardsmen alike die by the dozen. If you weren't upset, I would think you made of stone!”  
  
“But--”   
  
“And then Monsieur Gisquet sends you to hunt down escaping insurgents. He doesn't even bother to have anyone tend to your injuries first!” Chabouillet growled through his teeth as Javert stared, shocked by the blatant criticism of the Prefect.

“Monsieur, you shouldn’t blame Monsieur Gisquet for what happened,” Javert began slowly, almost cautiously, for this wasn't like Chabouillet at all. It wasn't that Chabouillet always agreed with the Prefects he had worked under. But when he found himself with a difference of opinion from his superior, Chabouillet tended to confine himself the occasional dry remark that skirted the edges of criticism and which Javert had always done his best to ignore. Earlier disagreements had certainly never evoked this strange fit of temper.   
  
Javert continued before Chabouillet could berate an absent Gisquet further. “You said it yourself: there were far too many deaths. Every man was needed in the aftermath, to track down insurgents and ensure that would be no further trouble. Monsieur Gisquet couldn't afford to send any man home who was still on his feet.”  
  
Chabouillet looked unconvinced and inclined to argue. “He still could've spared you. And even if he couldn't, he might have given you an hour or two to tend to your injuries and allow you to rest. An hour wouldn't have made a difference, surely.” 

Javert thought of his pursuit of Thénardier alias Jondrette to the sewers, of his encounter with Valjean and his half-dead insurgent. Would Javert have been at that particular exit at that particular moment, if he'd been delayed at the station-house by an order to rest and have his wounds tended? He didn't know. “I shall have to disagree with you there, I think,” he said half under his breath. He chuckled, though there was no mirth in the sound. He shook his head. “It doesn't signify. I would have insisted on performing my duty. You must realize that.”   
  
Chabouillet let out an exasperated breath, some of his earlier anger ebbing and shifting to ruefulness. “Yes, I suppose that's true,” he said. He rubbed at his chin, grimacing a little. “Well, perhaps I am being unkind to Monsieur Gisquet. Perhaps you downplayed your injuries, and he was too distracted to press you for the truth. That does seem to be a habit of yours.”  
  
Javert pursed his lips, feeling like a child being scolded for his foolishness. His fists tightened underneath his arms; he resisted the urge to fidget. “I don't believe it is a  _habit_ , since that would imply I do it often.” But now he recognized Chabouillet’s expression and snorted. “Monsieur, should I remind you that the Dupont incident was almost two decades ago? Surely you won't throw that in my face.”   
  
“The incident tends to linger in one’s memory, considering you nearly died,” Chabouillet remarked dryly.   
  
“We were still in pursuit of a criminal! I didn't want to distract anyone. Besides, I’d misjudged how deep the knife wound was, and how badly I was bleeding,” Javert protested. It was an old, familiar argument, the well-worn phrases almost soothing in their repetition. He managed a faint smile, one that wasn't quite amused. “Besides, the Dupont incident  _did_  draw your attention to me, did it not?”   
  
Chabouillet shook his head. “That is beside the point. Your zeal stood out, naturally, but it was your overall devotion to your duty that caught my attention. I thought that if you could keep yourself alive, you might make be a valuable asset to the force.” His expression resumed its earlier brooding look. “And here we come to my problem with your resignation, Javert. Do you truly mean to tell me all my efforts have been a waste? You will quit with a strange letter to the Prefect and a pitiful excuse to me about drowning your sorrows for a few days in alcohol as reason for dismissal?”   
  
Javert’s mouth was dry again. “I--” He stopped, tried to formulate a sentence that would banish Chabouillet’s reproachful look. “You have done much for me, monsieur. Without you, I wouldn't have gained my position in Montreuil-sur-Mer or Paris. But I cannot…I cannot continue as I was. I cannot be the same inspector you have known, if I remain, and I don't know what you would make of me, even if I were fit for my post.”   
  
“The gleam in your eye when we discussed the Montmartre case seemed like the Javert I know,” Chabouillet remarked. His voice was quiet, almost as though he spoke to himself. Then, before Javert could argue, he added in a louder voice, “Would this new man you claim to have become disregard the tenants of supervision and vigilance?”

Javert wearied of this awkward fumble for words, of this struggle to remain honest without revealing Valjean’s existence. “No, of course not, but that isn't the problem,” he said slowly. He knew that Chabouillet would expect more, that Chabouillet _deserved_ more, but he couldn't find the energy to continue with these half-truths.   
  
Perhaps that reflected in his face, because Chabouillet sighed and rubbed at his chin again. “I don’t suppose you care to elaborate on what the problem  _is_ ,” he said without much hope.   
  
After a moment, Javert shook his head, though it felt like a betrayal, that he couldn't tell Chabouillet the unvarnished truth. He owed the man a great deal. If Chabouillet had not taken him under his wing-- well. Things would have been different, certainly, for a great many people. He wondered, suddenly, if Valjean would still be Madeleine had Chabouillet’s patronage not sent Javert to Montreuil-sur-Mer.   
  
“Javert,” said Chabouillet.  
  
He realized he’d unfolded his arms and that one of his hands now gripped his whiskers tightly, tugging at them until his skin smarted. He dropped his hand to his side and dragged his attention from pointless speculation. He focused instead on Chabouillet’s expression, which was solemn. Javert cleared his throat. “Do you plan to take all the case files with you today? If so, you should take the Berger case to Costure. He'll be able to make an arrest soon.”   
  
“I suppose I should,” Chabouillet said. He frowned as he began to gather up most of the files. “Though some of these will keep, surely,” he muttered under his breath. His hand hovered over what Javert suspected was the Dufour file.   
  
Javert studied the way Chabouillet scowled at the case file as though it had offended him personally somehow, and suspected he knew what Chabouillet was thinking. If he left a few files behind, he could return the next day with a decent excuse and take up the argument once more.   
  
The thought wearied him. He couldn't debate both Chabouillet and Valjean. “I think Monsieur Gisquet will protest at his secretary being out of the station two mornings in a row,” he said.   
  
Chabouillet made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh and didn't look at him. His hand retreated from the case, his fingers drumming briefly on the edge of the desk. Only the Berger and Montmartre cases were tucked under his arm. “That’s true,” he said after a pause. Something that sounded like levity but wasn’t touched his voice as he added, “Perhaps I'll send one of your admirers tomorrow to collect the rest.”   
  
“Monsieur!” Javert protested, barely repressing a groan of dismay. Several of the sergeants had been overawed by his actions during the Gorbeau affair and had taken to following after him like over-eager and ill-trained puppies. He thought of Moreau and Comtois in particular, with their overly earnest questions about his injuries and if it was true that he was quitting the force. He grimaced. “That would be unfair of you.”  
  
“Unfair? No, I think that they won't believe you've resigned if I tell them,” Chabouillet said. “They need to hear it from you directly.”   
  
There was no rebuke lurking in the words, but Javert winced anyway, imagining Comtois and Moreau’s betrayed expressions. “Monsieur Chabouillet,” he protested again.

This time Chabouillet shot him a sharp look. “No, you will at least do them the kindness of telling them to their faces, Javert.”   
  
“Kindness.” Javert muttered the word, which tasted sour on his tongue. He sighed. “Very well, send them tomorrow if you insist. I suspect that they would come anyway, even if you didn't send them.”   
  
Chabouillet raised an eyebrow. “They would know where to look? I didn't realize they actually knew where you live.”   
  
Javert couldn’t quite help his rueful chuckle at Chabouillet’s half-incredulous look. “There is the book with our addresses,” he pointed out. “But even without that, Baudin told Comtois during the Allard incident. You remember, when Pierre Allard held that woman hostage and would only speak to me, but I had finished my shift.”   
  
“Ah, yes,” Chabouillet said, enlightened. He paused, opened his mouth as though to say something, and then reconsidered. He glanced down at the files under his arm. “Pascal will want this as soon as possible.”  
  
“Yes,” Javert said, though Chabouillet didn't move, only glanced up to study him again. The vise-like sensation of a headache made his head pound, but he endured both the discomfort and Chabouillet’s searching look.

“I don't know if you will listen,” Chabouillet said slowly, “but I will speak my piece anyway. Javert, will you at least listen? I have known you for fifteen years. I don't claim to know your innermost soul, but drawing upon my observations of you over the years, I can claim that I know you better than most. So believe me when I say that I think you are being too hard on yourself. Can you not accept that you are human, that witnessing so much pointless death would unnerve anyone?”   
  
Chabouillet’s expression darkened. A muscle jumped in his jaw. “So you strove to banish your demons through drink. Well, that is far preferable to other, more permanent means. A national guardsman, a young man with a promising future I'm told, killed himself just last night.” He paused. “You might have met, briefly. His suicide note touched on what he witnessed at the Rue de la Chanvrerie barricade.”  
  
Javert kept himself very still and froze his expression so that it would not change and betray him. He did not permit his thoughts to stray to the parapet where he had stood and contemplated the Seine’s tempting embrace. He did not think at all.   
  
Luckily, Chabouillet seemed too intent on making his speech to notice Javert’s reaction, or careful lack thereof. He gestured with his free hand, speaking urgently. “We've lost enough good men in the past week, Javert, to death and permanent injury. Will we be deprived of one more because of-- because of--” He paused, pursed his lips as he presumably searched for the right phrasing.   
  
Each word was like a weight dropped upon Javert’s shoulders. He did not bow under the load, but it was a very near thing. “Enough, monsieur,” he said through gritted teeth.   
  
A spark of challenge lit Chabouillet’s eyes. “I am not quite finished,” he said. “Javert, you will regret your decision if you resign. That much I do not doubt. Even now, isn't there a large part of you that wishes to throw off your covers and return with me to the station? Just say the word, and you may continue your work on the Montmartre case and help bring these wretches to justice. I know that the Gorbeau affair still troubles you as well. Do you truly not desire to resume your hunt for the Patron-Minette and see them arrested once more?”   
  
“It doesn't matter what I  _desire_ ,” Javert said. The words hurt his throat and left his chest feeling empty as the breath left his lungs. “It only matters what I  _deserve_.”  
  
“And I tell you that you don't deserve this punishment you have chosen,” said Chabouillet, so close to Valjean’s own words that it took everything within Javert not to flinch. Chabouillet searched Javert’s face once more; whatever he found there turned his expression and voice bitter. “But it seems you don't trust my judgment, despite everything. Very well. I shall send Comtois and Moreau tomorrow to collect the other files and your resignation letter.”  
  
Javert blinked. “My--”  
  
“Your diatribe about the prisons doesn't count, Javert. We must have a resignation letter that actually says you are quitting your post. You may give it to Moreau. He’ll see that it reaches my desk.”   
  
“I,” Javert began again, his mouth dry. If he had thought Chabouillet’s earlier words weighed heavily, that was nothing compared to these bitter remarks. “Mon--”  
  
But Chabouillet had apparently said his piece and did not wish to remain another minute more. Without a word of farewell, Chabouillet strode towards the door and wrenched it open.   
  
The slamming of the door echoed in Javert’s ears like the gunshot that had reverberated through the alley after Valjean had released him. Javert sat there dumbly, his ears ringing.   
  
Then the earlier wild restlessness drove him out of bed. He found himself opening the armoire and yanking out the first pair of trousers, shirt, and waistcoat his hand fell upon. He changed with sharp, jerky movements, hardly aware of what he was doing, his head still pounding too much to think clearly.   
  
“Monsieur Javert?” Madame Bonnet called cautiously through the door. “Did you need anything?”   
  
Javert’s mouth opened on its own and informed himself and his landlady, “One of your husband’s coats, madame. I am going out.”   
  
“ _Out_ , monsieur?”   
  
“Out,” he said even as he ran an automatic hand down the front of his shirt to smooth away any wrinkles.

He took up the small mirror and surveyed himself. That strange, faraway feeling of anger had returned; every gesture he made felt unnatural. His face seemed like a stranger's. After a moment’s consideration, he smoothed his hair away from his face, running his fingers through his hair until it lay mostly flat. The strands were in need of a wash, but the thought of staying here even a half-hour longer made his stomach twist.   
  
When he emerged from his room, Madame Bonnet hovered by his door, one of her husband’s coats clutched in her hands. She offered it to him uncertainly. “Inspector, do you intend to be gone for long? The doctor will be….” she began, but trailed off as he took the coat from her.   
  
As he’d suspected, the coat was ill-fitting. The cuffs didn't even come close to reaching his wrists, and the coat was far too tight upon his shoulders. He buttoned up the coat, and then twisted his body carefully, testing how much he could move without feeling strangled. He would have to walk and gesture with care if he did not want to tear the stitching and owe Monsieur Bonnet a new coat. He lowered his arms cautiously. “Thank you,” he said. “I don't know how long I will be.”   
  
“And if the doctor arrives while you are gone?”  
  
“Convey my apologies and tell him that I will see him tomorrow,” Javert said. He retreated briefly back into his room to snatch his old hat from its position atop the armoire. Its brim had frayed, but he supposed it was better than no hat at all.   
  
“What about breakfast?” Madame Bonnet asked, following at his heels. “You should--”  
  
“I'm not hungry,” he said, firmly enough that the woman’s mouth snapped shut. He ignored her anxious look and tipped his hat to her. “Good morning, madame.”  
  
It was early enough in the day for the weather still to be cool, the summer breeze tickling the back of his neck as he walked. The sensation drew Javert slowly from that distant anger, the wind kindling a spark of fury in his chest until he could barely see in his rage. He didn't mutter to himself, for he was already attracting strange looks, but the words rose in his throat and nearly strangled him. How  _dare_  Valjean send that note to Chabouillet! How  _dare_  Valjean interfere in his life as though he had any say in the matter!   
  
Javert walked and brooded, growing angrier with each step. His mental map of Paris had remade itself, each street and shortcut distinct once more; his feet led him unerringly towards Rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7.   
  
When he knocked at the gate, a man who was presumably the porter came out to squint at him. Javert didn't miss the judgmental twist to the man's mouth as his narrowed eyes moved slowly over Javert’s too-small coat and fraying hat, or how his gaze lingered on the poorly hidden bandages at his throat and wrists. The porter pursed his lips.   
  
“I am here to see Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Javert said before the man could mistake him for a beggar and send him on his way. Despite the rage that made his hands want to shake, the words came out matter-of-fact.   
  
Understanding flickered across the man’s face, but he shook his head. “He’s not here, monsieur. I’m afraid he’s on an errand.”   
  
“Not--” Consternation choked him. Belatedly, he recalled Valjean saying something about visiting the insurgent’s bedside every morning. He studied the porter’s unfriendly expression and knew that the man wouldn't invite him inside. “When--”  
  
“He might return in the next few minutes, or he might return in two hours time, monsieur. There’s no way of knowing,” said the porter, still with that unwelcoming politeness. “If you’d like to leave a message, I can give it to him once he’s returned.”  
  
“No,” Javert said. “No, I will wait.”   
  
The porter stared at him. “Wait?”  
  
Javert gestured at a nearby stone post which would make for an uncomfortable but workable seat. “I will wait,” he repeated.   
  
The porter pursed his lips and looked doubtful. “If you insist, monsieur, but you might be waiting a while.”  
  
A low, mirthless chuckle escaped Javert then, one that hurt his throat. “I have nowhere else to be.” 

“Very well, monsieur.” With one final, dubious glance, the porter retreated back into the house.  
  
Javert wiped at the surface of the post, for it was wet with dew, and then settled his weight against it. He folded his arms against his chest and bowed his head in thought to brood once more.

“Monsieur?” The voice was soft, musical, and decidedly female.   
  
Javert slowly raised his head.   
  
A young woman smiled brightly at him. Unlike the porter’s, her look contained no judgment, but merely a good-natured sort of curiosity as she studied him. “Forgive my forwardness, monsieur, but you  _are_  waiting to speak with Monsieur Fauchelevent, are you not?” she asked. She favored him with another dazzling smile when he nodded. “Good! I am his daughter.”   
  
“Daught--” Javert stared at her, dumbfounded.  _This_  was that woman’s child? He found himself searching her features, looking for any resemblance between mother and daughter. He discerned only similar and yet dissimilar rosy cheeks, for the daughter’s face was flushed with good health and the heat as the mother’s had been with illness and the chill. Otherwise they were as different as night and day.   
  
Then again, perhaps this was how that woman would have appeared, had she not been dying when he knew her. His throat tightened at the thought, his stomach roiling uneasily. _You have murdered that woman_ , Madeleine’s voice seemed to whisper in his ear. Javert repressed a shudder. He dropped his gaze to the ground and looked away from that smiling countenance. It took him a few seconds to speak, and when he did, the words were strained. “I don't wish to impose, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. I can wait out--”  
  
“Nonsense, monsieur!” This was said cheerfully but firmly. “I have already asked Toussaint to prepare some tea for us. We mustn't waste her efforts. And I must admit that I am terribly curious about you. We so rarely have visitors!”   
  
When Javert forced himself to look up, the girl’s expression was still cheerful, but there was a certain stubborn slant to her mouth and her hands were upon her hips. She wouldn't allow him to stand outside and wait for Valjean, he realized. If he tried to dig in his heels, doubtless she would stand here for the next few hours, cheerfully enduring the summer heat alongside him.   
  
He cleared his throat and made one final, awkward attempt to persuade her into returning to her apartment and leaving him here with his thoughts. “Pardon me, mademoiselle, but you don't know me. We have not even been formally introduced. I don't think it’s proper for--”  
  
Amused laughter interrupted him this time. She smiled at him though she thought he was joking rather than in earnest. “Toussaint will be there, monsieur. She can act as duenna until Father returns. Will that suit you? And we shall know each other much better once you’ve told me your name,” she said, and looked expectant.   
  
“I am Inspec--” Javert stopped. The title caught in his throat. He had known, objectively, that he would no longer be able to call himself an inspector, but it was one thing to know it and quite another thing to introduce himself without the title for the first time. His mouth went dry. With some effort, he took off his hat and inclined his head towards her. “I am Monsieur Javert,” he said finally, and tried to ignore the way ‘monsieur’ seemed so strange on his tongue.   
  
The girl had noticed the slip, for she fixed her curious gaze upon him and said nothing for a moment. Then she smiled again, this time almost cautiously. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Javert.” She clasped her hands in front of her, her expression brightening. “But come, the tea should be ready by now. We shall get away from the heat, and have tea, and you can tell me how you know my father.”   
  
Javert imagined telling her the whole story, beginning with Toulon, and repressed a sarcastic laugh. “That is his story to tell, not mine, mademoiselle,” he said. “You will have to ask him, if you are truly curious.”   
  
She wrinkled her nose at that. “Oh, but he will not tell me anything!” she muttered. “If you know him well, Monsieur Javert, you know how he only gets vague when you ask him anything about his past.” Javert didn't answer, but she didn't seem to notice. She explained how her father had gone to visit a home in the Marais, to deliver linen to a family friend who had been injured during the recent unpleasantness. Some of the color faded from her cheeks then, and worry clouded her blue eyes.   
  
“He is very badly hurt,” she concluded.

Javert shifted, disquieted and uncertain what to do about the distress in her voice. He was not one for comforting gestures or soothing words. In fact, for quite some time he had been forbidden to deliver death notifications to victims’ families. He cleared his throat again. “I believe V-- I believe your father said that the boy was feverish, but that there was hope he might survive.”  
  
She looked somewhat comforted, and then surprised. “Father spoke to you of Marius?”   
  
Javert was certain that his expression reflected his own puzzlement. “He seemed to think I should take an interest in the boy-- in Marius’s fate-- since I helped your father deliver him to his grandfather’s house.”  
  
“Helped--” Rather than allaying her confusion, Javert seemed to have added to it, for the girl stared at him as though he had suddenly spoken Greek. “Monsieur, I do not understand. You're saying that my  _father_  brought Marius to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire No. 6?”   
  
For a moment, they stared at each other. Javert could not make sense of it. It sounded as though Valjean had concealed his actions at the barricade from the child, but that was nonsense, surely. Valjean had saved the boy she loved. What need was there for secrecy?   
  
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he said slowly. “How did your father explain…?”   
  
He didn't finish the question, for the girl turned and rushed away. She threw open a door and darted inside, crying out, “Toussaint! Toussaint, you must hear what this gentleman has to say about Father and Marius!” An instant later, her head and arm reappeared around the door and she gestured wildly at him. “Come in, monsieur! You must tell us everything!”   
  
Javert hesitated, but when she gestured again, he entered. There were stairs, and then an antechamber. There was a table with a tea set, an arm-chair that must be Valjean’s, and then two chairs that looked as though they had been hastily arranged in the antechamber for unexpected company. There was even a bookshelf that spanned an entire wall, cluttered with books that seemed to run from philosophical texts to adventure novels.   
  
The elderly servant looked curiously at Javert, but she too showed no judgment at his appearance. “Good morning, monsieur,” she said. She reached for his hat, which he belatedly realized he still clutched in his hand. The woman spoke with a strong stammer, though Javert didn't think it was nerves that caused the stuttering. “The tea is ready, mademoiselle.”   
  
“Sit, monsieur,” commanded the girl. She took his arm and raised her face to smile at him. He froze, for he’d found yet another trace of her mother; it was in her imploring look and the entreating tone she used as she said, “You _will_ tell us how you and Father saved Marius, will you not, monsieur? It seems quite the tale!”   
  
Javert had not been moved by the mother’s pleas, but he found he could not refuse the daughter. Still, he couldn't let her go on looking at him like that, as though she admired him. He tugged his arm from her grasp and stepped away. “I did not-- you misunderstood me, mademoiselle. It was your father who rescued him and carried him away from the barricade. I merely provided the carriage.”   
  
“Ah, so you only aided Marius, you didn't rescue him,” she said with a bright laugh. “I see that is a very different matter, and yet I thank you for your assistance nonetheless. Now please, will you sit and tell us of how you came to provide the carriage?” She gestured at the arm-chair. “Please, sit, monsieur,” she said again.   
  
He stared at the arm-chair. His stomach roiled uneasily once more. He shouldn't have come here, he realized. He should have remained in his own apartment. Instead, he’d placed himself in the lion’s den, to sit in Valjean’s chair and to be so addressed by Valjean’s daughter. “Mademoiselle,” he began.   
  
“Monsieur,” she answered with a teasing laugh. “You look ready to flee. Am I so terrible a hostess? But I suppose I am, for I'm pestering you with demands before I have even given you tea!” She made to do so, her motions quick but careful as she poured three cups. She pressed the first upon Javert, who accepted it automatically, and then the second upon Toussaint, positioned in one corner of the room. Finally she took up the last cup and seated herself with an artless grace in her chair.

Javert sat down in the arm-chair, feeling vaguely like he’d just stepped fully into a cage and locked himself inside. He raised his cup to his lips to hide his unease. The tea tasted of lemon and skirted the edge of being overly sweetened by one too many spoonfuls of sugar.   
  
She waited until he had lowered the cup to lean forward, her blue eyes fixed upon his face. She didn’t say anything, but her expectant look might as well have been another spoken plea.   
  
Javert fiddled with the cup, turning it around in his hand and studying the painted roses. “Perhaps it would be best if you first told me what your father said. It might be a simple misunderstanding of his explanation,” he said.   
  
She wrinkled her nose, looking doubtful. “I don't think that I misunderstood him, monsieur. He explained how he had received a letter from a Monsieur Gillenormand-- that is Marius’s grandfather, you see-- informing him that Marius had been badly injured at one of the barricades. One of the servants had been going through his clothes and found a letter in Marius’s pocket explaining….” She paused, an embarrassed flush turning her cheeks still rosier. Then she squared her shoulders and looked almost defiant. “A letter explaining how Marius loves me. We plan to marry, you see.”   
  
“Ah,” Javert said. Were congratulations in order, since the boy might not survive the week? He fiddled with his cup, wondering how to politely inform her that Valjean was a liar.   
  
“So what  _is_  the truth, monsieur?”   
  
“The truth,” Javert repeated. The word curdled on his tongue, made him grimace. “The truth is that your father was at the barricade, mademoiselle. He rescued your Marius himself and dragged him through the sewers to escape the National Guard.”   
  
“You witnessed this? Were you with Marius at the barricades?”  
  
“ _With_ \--” Javert scowled at the insinuation, and then attempted to soften his expression when she shrank back. “I was not one of the insurgents, mademoiselle. I am-- I was--” The words tangled together, the bandages around his throat too tight. He ran his fingers briefly under the bandages, loosening them a little so that he could breathe. “That is to say, at the time I had been captured carrying out my duties as an inspector of the police. I was a prisoner of the insurgents when Monsieur-- when Monsieur Fauchelevent came to the barricades to rescue your Marius. Later, when I was on patrol for further insurgent activity, I found your father and the boy emerging from the sewers near the Jena bridge--”   
  
“Forgive me, monsieur, I'm grateful that you are telling me this, truly I am, but I think you're only giving me half the story,” the girl said. Her feet drummed a nervous beat on the floor. “You were a prisoner? However did you escape? Why did you assist Father if you were meant to arrest Marius?”   
  
“I--” Javert stopped, not so much frustrated at the girl’s questions as he was at himself. Had his skills at issuing a verbal report really atrophied so quickly? He had given one to the Prefect less than a week ago! He cleared his throat.   
  
“Let me try again, mademoiselle. Monsieur Gisquet, that is, the Prefect of Police, had assigned me two tasks during the recent troubles. First, I was to go to the barricade being raised at the Rue de la Chanvrerie and study the insurgents’ numbers and learn their plans if I could. Second, I was to patrol the right bank of the Seine and ensure that the insurgents were not creating further disturbances there.” He paused and shrugged. “Unfortunately, I was recognized at the barricade and captured. Your father--” Had the bandages somehow tightened on their own? It was proving difficult to speak. He swallowed. “When your father arrived at the barricade to rescue your Marius, he realized my predicament. The insurgents planned to kill me right before the barricade fell.”   
  
He tugged again at the bandages. He remembered the way the martingale had dug into his skin, how Valjean had marched him out into the alleyway, the glint of the pistol, and then the glint of the knife. Quietly, he said, “Your father convinced the leader that he should be allowed to execute me, and then allowed me to escape.”

If she had been surprised to learn that her father had rescued the boy, she was not, it seemed, surprised at hearing how her father had saved Javert from certain death when the opportunity had presented itself. She leaned forward, propping her chin in one hand, her expression eager and attentive. “And then?”

“And then I reported to Monsieur Gisquet what I’d observed. After that, I made my way to the bank of the Seine. There I recognized a criminal who’d recently escaped from prison, and I pursued him, but he disappeared into the sewers. While I was waiting to see if he would emerge, your father appeared instead, carrying the boy. He--”

Javert had been turning the cup around in his hands, studying the tea’s ripples rather the girl’s face as he’d continued speaking. Now his hands stilled, the words sticking in his throat. He finished the rest of his tea, but found that his mouth and throat were still dry. “He asked me a favor, that I would help him carry your Marius home. I…had a hackney-coach waiting.”

“And so you agreed to the favor, when you should have arrested Marius,” said the girl when he paused.

Javert winced at her admiring tone. “It was not as generous an act as you think, mademoiselle. I hadn't thought the boy would survive his injuries. And--” He was fiddling with the cup again. He discovered a small chip at the bottom of the handle. He ran his thumb over it, frowning. “And your father spared my life when he should have--” He paused, and then laughed noiselessly. “Well. When he--”

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reached his ears, and the rest of the sentences struggling for utterance fell promptly out of Javert’s head. He set the cup on the table. He turned his face towards the door, and ignored the way his heart pounded like he was about to face a firing squad.

The girl looked towards the door as well, wearing a half-pleased, half-determined look. “I think my father is home, monsieur,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind if I demand some answers of him before you discuss whatever it is that you came to discuss.”

Javert would've laughed again if his throat hadn't been so dry. “Not at all, mademoiselle,” he forced out.

Then the door opened, though Valjean’s voice filled the room before his body came into view, his words sharp with urgency and concern. “Cosette, Monsieur Royer says we have a guest--” Valjean froze in the doorway as his gaze fell upon Javert. His expression emptied itself of all emotion save astonishment.

For a few seconds, the room was silent. Then the girl leaped to her feet and marched towards Valjean. “Father! I am very vexed with you,” she announced, her hands on her hips, her lips pursed in a scolding frown. “Why did you lie? Inspector Javert has been telling us--”

Valjean’s expression had drained of expression before; now it drained of color. “Javert has been telling you…?” His gaze flickered between the girl and Javert for a bewildered instant, and then the girl took a startled step backwards as Valjean’s expression darkened with rage.

Javert, caught in the middle of rising to his feet, gripped the armrests and sank back down into the chair as Valjean advanced upon him. He had seen Valjean frustrated before, and even somewhat angry. He had not, he realized, seen Valjean truly furious and all that rage directed upon him until now.

“What have you said?” Valjean growled in a dangerous tone.

The girl looked bewildered by Valjean’s transformation. She reached out to clutch at his elbow. “Father, do not be angry with him,” she said, her eyes wide and her tone pleading. “I asked him how you two knew each other--”

Pain and something like grief contorted Valjean’s face then, and in a flash of enlightenment, Javert understood. The girl didn't know of Valjean’s past, and Valjean thought Javert had--

“I told her about the barricade,” Javert interjected. “How you saved me and that boy Marius. That's all.”

“The barricade,” Valjean said slowly, blinking.  

“Yes, the barricade,” the girl said. She laughed, though there was an edge to the sound. “What else would we have been discussing? I don't understand why you didn't tell me how you saved Marius’s life. Why would you make up some silly tale about a letter? Were you worried that I would scold you for putting yourself in danger?”

A curious expression formed on Valjean’s face as the girl spoke. The anger ebbed away, replaced by bewilderment. He seemed almost stupefied, like a man might appear who has been given a reprieve seconds before his execution.   
  
When he did not answer her, the girl looked anxious. She squeezed Valjean’s arm and said, her gaze fixed upon Valjean’s dazed expression, “Sit down. You're so pale! Was your ridiculous secret that important to you? I cannot imagine why! Come, take my chair. Toussaint, do we have another cup? Never mind, Father can use mine, for he needs some tea--”  
  
“No,” Valjean said. Her nervous chatter seemed to shake him from his stupor. He even managed a faint smile as he patted her hand, though it was a weak, unsteady twist of his lips. “No, I am all right, my dear. I don't need any tea.” He paused, an unreadable expression on his face. Softer, he added, “I promise I will explain about the barricade, but right now, Inspector Javert and I must talk.”   
  
“Very well,” she said with a put-upon sigh, though she kept her hand on his arm, as though to reassure herself that he was steady on his feet.   
  
After a few seconds, Valjean added, “Alone.”   
  
There was a strange undercurrent to Valjean’s tone; it took Javert a moment to recognize it as fondness. Even as he watched, Valjean patted the girl’s hand again, an unfamiliar warmth in his expression.   
  
“But,” she began to protest, wrinkling her nose once more. Then she sighed and stepped back, her hands resettling on her hips. She pursed her lips and shook her head at Valjean. “Very well, have your privacy. But you  _will_  tell me the whole truth of the barricade and how you came to rescue Marius.” She smiled suddenly, a mischievous look. “If you don't, I suspect I can get it out of Monsieur Javert. He seems much more forthright.”   
  
Before either Valjean or Javert could react to this declaration, the girl turned and said in an imperious tone, “Come, Toussaint. I think we should go for a stroll while the weather is not so unbearably warm.”   
  
“Yes, mademoiselle,” said the servant, her expression and tone reserved even as her gaze flickered towards Valjean. A minute later, both she and the girl were dressed for a morning walk.   
  
Javert kept his silence, and Valjean, for his part, had retreated to stand beside the bookshelf, his arms folded against his chest and a pensive look on his face.   
  
The girl paused at the door, and then abruptly turned and flung her arms around Valjean’s neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Even as Javert dropped his gaze to the floor in embarrassment, he couldn't avoid hearing her affectionate words. “Promise me that you will drink some tea, Father, or I shall worry the entire time Toussaint and I are having our walk. And don't frown so! You are forgiven, even though you lied to me.”   
  
This last sentence was offered in a magnanimous tone, and Javert wasn't surprised when Valjean chuckled weakly. “I will have some tea,” he promised. “Enjoy your walk, my dear.”   
  
The tenderness in Valjean’s voice pricked at Javert like salt being rubbed into his wounds. He grimaced and scowled down at the floor, wishing once more that he had remained in his own apartment and waited for Valjean to arrive that afternoon to confront him. It had been bad enough to know that the man had transformed from a criminal into a saint; it was somehow equally terrible to find that he had changed into a devoted father to that woman's child as well.   
  
The door closed, and thick, suffocating silence fell upon the room. Javert took in a deep breath, then another, still staring at the floor and trying to gather his thoughts.   
  
Then Valjean cleared his throat. “Why did you come here, Javert?”   
  
Javert bristled though there had been no rebuke in the question. “Playing the fool doesn't suit you,” he snapped. “You know perfectly well why I came.”   
  
“No,” Valjean said, his tone irritatingly mild. “I know why you are angry, but we could have just as easily had this conversation at your apartment rather than here. Did you walk the entire way, or did you borrow some money from Madame Bonnet for a coach?”   
  
“What is your insistence on pointless questions?” The anger, banished for a time at the shock of seeing that woman’s child grown into a young woman, was returning. Javert looked up, scowling.

Valjean wore a look which matched his mild tone, a calm expression that made Javert even angrier. Valjean had no right to look so composed, as though Javert was the one being foolish and overreacting. “I am trying to understand--” Valjean began. Then some of the calm slipped, a slight furrow creasing his forehead. He paused. The corners of his mouth turned downward. “I am trying to understand why you're here, and to learn what you told Cosette.”   
  
Javert laughed noiselessly. “Ah, yes. Your Cosette-- but I suppose I should call her Mademoiselle Fauchelevent. That  _is_  the name she goes by, is it not? I think you scared Mademoiselle Fauchelevent with your furious look. It was almost,” he continued, sarcasm thickening the syllables until he was almost choking on his own words, “as though you objected to the fact that I came to your apartment uninvited and spoke to someone you respect without your permission about things that weren't my concern. Don't you believe that turn-about is fair play, then?”   
  
A flush crept into Valjean’s face. His frown deepened. “This is quite--”  
  
“Different?” Javert laughed again, though this time the harsh, bitter sound escaped his lips. “I think not. Haven't I simply returned the favor you bestowed upon me? Ah, but perhaps you object because we're still not even. It is only right that I should interfere with your life as much as you have with mine.” He reached out a hand and snapped his fingers when Valjean stared in mute incomprehension. “Very well, I will concede to your wishes. Give up your pocket-book and your coat, and we shall call ourselves even.”   
  
“Javert,” Valjean said. He half-laughed, half-made a face as though he could not believe Javert’s words. “What--”  
  
“Or you can return my money and my coats, if you prefer,” Javert continued. He hauled himself upright and ran his gaze down Valjean’s frame in a slow, mocking look that made Valjean flush. “That would probably be best. I think your coats would fit me little better than Monsieur Bonnet’s.” Besides the door that led into the hallway, there were three others in the antechamber. Earlier, the girl had gone into one room to don her walking clothes, the servant into another. Javert started towards the third room, which presumably belonged to Valjean. “I assume you didn't actually send the coats to be cleaned as you told my landlady--”  
  
“I did,” Valjean said, and Javert stopped in dismay, his hand resting on the doorknob. He didn't look at Valjean as the other man continued, “A washwoman took your summer coat yesterday. I expect it back tomorrow.” When Javert turned and stared, Valjean looked unapologetic. “You spent some time sitting in the dirt, if you recall. The coat was in need of cleaning.”  
  
“Is my winter coat here at least?”   
  
“Yes,” Valjean said after a moment’s hesitation, as though he’d been tempted to lie.   
  
Javert shrugged. “Well, that is better than nothing, I suppose.”   
  
“It is June. You cannot walk through Paris in your winter coat unless you want to die from the heat,” Valjean objected. Then he winced, presumably at his own phrasing.  
  
“If I have my money, I can take a carriage,” Javert said. He went into Valjean’s room as Valjean made a noise suspiciously like an exasperated sigh. Much like Madeleine’s office in Montreuil-sur-Mur, the room was spartan. Javert’s coat was laid upon Valjean’s bed.   
  
“Javert,” Valjean said from the doorway.   
  
Javert ignored him, and tried to take off his borrowed coat. His movements were too hurried and too frustrated; he managed to get himself tangled up in the sleeves and swore as he thrashed around like a ninny.   
  
“Here,” Valjean said, and Javert jumped. He hadn't heard Valjean’s approach, but now Valjean was suddenly in his space, too close again. His breath tickled Javert’s ear, raised the hair on the back of his neck as Valjean added, “Let me help.”   
  
“I can do this myself,” Javert grumbled, that old, traitorous knot reforming in his stomach. He made to step away, and then twitched as Valjean took hold of his elbows. “ _Valjean_ \--”  
  
“Yes, yes, you don't need my help. But I think you'd prefer my assistance to fumbling with the coat for another five minutes,” Valjean said. His tone was dry. His grip was light but firm upon Javert’s arms; Javert didn't doubt that he would tighten his hold if Javert tried to escape his grasp.

Javert gritted his teeth and endured the touch. “Fine,” he said. He waited, but Valjean made no move to actually untangle him from his borrowed coat.   
  
Instead Valjean just stood there, his even breaths still grazing Javert’s ear and making Javert fight back another shudder. Was the man lost in thought? Hadn't he heard Javert’s acquiescence? Perhaps he was just stalling for the sake of driving Javert mad.   
  
Javert didn't quite dare to turn and glare directly at Valjean, not with Valjean already so close. He fixed his glower upon the far wall and snapped, “Well? Get on with it.”   
  
Valjean’s hands tightened briefly. “It will be easier if you relax, I think,” he murmured. Then, even as Javert drew in a deep breath and attempted to obey, Valjean ruined all his efforts by asking, “So Monsieur Chabouillet must have received my note. Did he come to see you?”   
  
Javert rolled his eyes. Of course Valjean would be unable to resist the urge to pry. Javert didn't know why he was surprised. “Can't you wait and ask me about Chabouillet until  _after_  I am free from this coat?” he complained. He’d tensed again at the mention of Chabouillet. He forced himself to relax.   
  
“You're actually going to answer my question?” Valjean said, sounding a little surprised.   
  
“No, but at least then I would be out of the coat.”   
  
Valjean made a noise suspiciously like a chuckle, his breath hot against Javert’s jaw as he shifted in place. His hands finally moved, his fingers working their way between the coat and Javert’s shirt. “He must have either spoken to you directly or sent a letter of his own, or else you wouldn't have come here to scold me,” Valjean said, though his low tone was distracted, as though he were merely thinking aloud. “Surely he also objected to you quitting, though perhaps he was more persuasive when arguing against it.”   
  
Javert pursed his lips. Had  _that_  been Valjean’s plan, send the letter and hope that Chabouillet would convince him not to resign? “It's none of your business what we spoke on,” he said, memory of Chabouillet’s bitter expression turning his voice almost to a growl. “Especially when you had no right to send that letter to him.” He snorted. “A concerned gentleman! What foolishness. Though I suppose I should be glad that you didn't sign the letter Fauchelevent and lead a trail straight to your door.”   
  
Valjean said nothing for a few seconds. Then he said, “There's already a trail to Ultime Fauchelevent, of a sort. The uniform you saw me wearing at the barricade was mine. Fauchelevent is part of the National Guard.”   
  
“What!” Javert made the mistake of turning his head to stare and gauge Valjean’s sincerity. He found Valjean smiling, a small, upward curl of his mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkling with sheepish amusement. It was a strange look on Valjean, for it lent a certain softness to his face. Javert resisted the urge to swallow, and instead said a little thickly, “You aren't serious.”   
  
“I am serious,” Valjean said. His eyebrows rose briefly. “Where did you think I’d gotten the uniform? Surely you didn’t believe I’d stolen it off a corpse.”   
  
“Honestly, how you came to wear that uniform was the farthest thing from my mind,” Javert said dryly.   
  
Valjean’s smile faded a little. “Yes, I suppose it would have been,” he said. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, the faint smile becoming almost fixed upon his face as he tugged Javert’s coat sleeves back to almost his shoulders. “Straighten out your arms, please.”   
  
Javert obeyed, gritting his teeth and forcing the tension out of his arms and shoulders. The tension moved to his stomach and his legs, muscles taut as though his body expected him to snatch up his coat, find his money, and flee as soon as he was free of Monsieur Bonnet’s damn coat.   
  
Valjean was too close again, the heat of his hands soaking through Javert’s shirt to the skin. Standing like this, with his arms trapped behind him, Javert felt too much like a prisoner and Valjean too much like the man clapping him in irons. He closed his eyes against Valjean’s intent expression and his pursed mouth, reddened by Valjean worrying at his lips.   
  
“If you are done prattling,” he found himself muttering, though Valjean hadn't spoken since his last instruction, “may we finish?”

As though to spite him, one of Valjean’s hands dropped from Javert’s arm.  
  
“Valjean, will you just--” The rest of his exasperated demand caught in Javert’s throat as Valjean’s fingers pressed lightly against the back of his neck, just above the bandages. Javert repressed a full-bodied shudder of surprise.  
  
“Have you been tugging at your bandages? They seem a trifle loose,” Valjean observed. “And they don't look clean.” There was a frown in his voice. “Didn't the doctor visit?”  
  
“No,” Javert said. “Madame Bonnet will tell him to return tomorrow if he visits while I'm away.” The admission was given grudgingly, for Javert knew that Valjean would scold him. He should have simply refused Valjean’s assistance, he thought sourly; surely he would have untangled himself by now.  
  
“Javert--”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Javert said again, sharply. He bristled at Valjean’s dismayed tone. He shook his head as a horse would shake off a fly, and rolled his shoulders in a vain attempt to work himself free of the coat. Neither Valjean’s hand nor the coat moved. “You will _not_  scold me like a fishwife while I'm still trapped in this damn coat. Or do you think it is fair to scold me while I cannot escape?”  
  
“It's unfair, but what does that matter? It isn't as though you're listening,” Valjean pointed out.  
  
Javert opened his eyes and turned his head a little so that he looked down into Valjean’s face. Valjean’s eyes were dark with frustration, his lips pressed tightly together in a frown. The momentary softness had vanished.  
  
When their eyes met, Valjean’s hand tensed against Javert’s neck; his fingernails dug into the skin not quite hard enough to be painful. “Javert,” Valjean said. He stopped, some emotion flickering across his face that Javert couldn't define. “I am only concern--”  
  
Javert spoke over him, a trifle loudly. If he had to hear yet another word of Valjean’s concern for his well-being, he would tear out the stitching of Monsieur Bonnet’s coat and be done with it. “How many times do I have to tell you that my life is not your concern before you accept it? We are not friends--” The words choked him. He said, quieter, “You are not obligated to ensure that I spend my remaining years contented, Valjean. In fact, I would be  _content_  if you stopped with your meddling and left me in peace.”  
  
Valjean’s hand tensed against Javert’s neck as Valjean frowned, though this time fingernails didn't dig into his skin. “But you wouldn't be content. You would be unhappy, even if you will not admit it,” Valjean said earnestly. Much as Chabouillet had, his eyes focused upon Javert’s face as though he searched for something in Javert’s expression. “I cannot stand by while you choose misery due to some misguided notion of--”  
  
“Enough!” The word came out a low growl. “You cannot force my former position upon me--”  
  
“And how is your decision to quit the police not partly my fault?” Valjean broke in. “You have said yourself that you couldn't return to your position because you allowed me to remain at liberty and betrayed your position. Do I not share some responsibility?” Valjean’s tone was almost pleading.  
  
If Javert’s arms hadn't still been caught behind his back, he would have slapped Valjean’s hand away from his neck and fled, his winter coat be damned. “That wasn't the only reason I cannot continue as an inspector,” he said, grimacing. Then he laughed his strange soundless laugh. “Though I suppose the other reason has as much to do with you as the first.”   
  
“And what is the other reason?”  
  
His speech came haltingly at first, unease twisting his stomach tighter with every syllable, and then faster, Javert almost astonished at how the words tumbled from his lips in their urgency to be spoken. “Before you-- before the barricade, I was certain. And perhaps you don't understand that, you with your half-dozen names and identities. But I knew what was right and what was wrong, I knew that all the answers could be found in the law if only I looked hard enough. And then you destroyed all that, you with your mercy. How can I be a decent inspector if I am constantly doubting myself, if I hesitate over what is just in every situation, if I must constantly choose between man’s law or God’s? I would be useless and indecisive. The police surely don't need a man like that.”

Valjean fixed a troubled look upon him. “Have you considered that that is precisely the type of man the police might need?”   
  
Another laugh scraped Javert’s throat. “I don't see how that's possible. Why would they need an inspector who hesitates and doubts himself?”   
  
Valjean said nothing for a moment, his lips pressed tightly together once more. He seemed more pensive than frustrated. “Better one who hesitates than one who accepts the law blindly and makes terrible mistakes,” he said at last.   
  
There was no obvious rebuke in Valjean’s words. Still, Javert flinched. In his mind’s eye, he saw the specter of that child’s mother, her desperate face lifted towards his as she pleaded that her child would die if she went to jail. He saw Madeleine as well, his expression pained as he was stripped of his chains of office and re-fitted with manacles.   
  
Still other faces appeared, those of men and women he had arrested who had offered Javert all manner of excuses and pleas over the decades. How many of them had been speaking honestly as the woman had or had been striving towards piousness like Madeleine? How many times had he mistaken man’s law for justice when God’s law would have told him otherwise?   
  
Javert shook his head and banished the accusing faces until at last he focused upon Valjean's face. “I would dither like a fool,” he said with a bitter twist of his lips, settling on a truth he could stomach to say aloud. “And those types of indecision can allow a criminal the opportunity to escape. What if I hesitate and mistake someone for another-- for another Jean Valjean, when the wretch is as monstrous as one of the Patron-Minette or Montmartre gangs?”   
  
“I think you do yourself a grave disservice,” Valjean argued. He paused, a curious flush on his cheeks, his eyes flickering away and then returning to meet Javert’s gaze. “True, you misjudged my ability to change, saw only the convict and not the good man I've attempted to be. That is the truth, it cannot be avoided. But you also recognized that I was keeping a secret in Montreuil-sur-Mur when no one else questioned me, or-- well, or at least was not convinced when everyone else was fooled. You don't have perfect judgment, but it isn't as terrible as you think it to be.”  
  
“I--”   
  
Valjean ignored him. He kept speaking in a low, unbearably earnest way. “And try to think of it in this manner, Javert. What if what you fear never comes to pass? What if this new way of considering the law means you might be able to help people who would have suffered otherwise? You can always resign later, if what you fear is true.”   
  
“If what I fear  _comes_  true, you mean,” Javert said. “And then I would have blood on my hands, if that escaped criminal murders or harms someone.” His hands clenched into fists so tightly that his hands ached. Valjean’s gaze lowered to his whitened knuckles. “No, I cannot take that chance.”   
  
Valjean shook his head. His gaze returned to Javert’s face. “But what of the cases you might solve if you remain an inspector? You cannot tell me your fellow inspectors will be able to solve  _all_  of the cases I saw on your desk without your assistance. Are the deaths of the future victims of those unsolved cases not blood upon your hands as well?”   
  
Javert took the question like a blow; he could not quite help the way he rocked back on his feet, even though it meant Valjean could feel the recoil. He thought of the Montmartre case, of the servant who had nearly died. The next time the gang might kill rather than maim. Would that person’s death be on his conscience as well? “I--” There was a buzzing in his ears. “So I am damned either way,” he said distantly. “You make it very clear-- whether I remain as an inspector or quit my position, there still will be people hurt because of my decision--”  
  
“No, that isn't what I meant,” Valjean snapped, his voice suddenly very close.   
  
Javert blinked.   
  
Valjean had closed what little distance there had remained to them, his face only a few inches from Javert’s. His expression was strained. “That isn't what I meant at all, Javert. I meant that you could do good work, help as well as protect people, if only you would allow yourself the opportunity.” 

Something twisted in Javert’s chest. The buzzing died away, replaced by an unpleasant, too-familiar pressure in his head. A sound that was neither a laugh nor a sigh escaped him. If his hands had been free, he would have passed them over his face or pressed his knuckles to his forehead and tried to rub away the impending headache.   
  
Instead he shook his head, Valjean’s palm still resting lightly against his neck. “You make it sound so simple,” he said. The words came slowly now, and quietly, for Javert found it took some effort to gather enough breath to speak. “It cannot possibly be so. Good God, when I remember-- was it less than a fortnight ago?-- how straightforward everything seemed! I knew my place. My choices were superseded by one decision I had made long ago, to follow the law without question. How could the future surprise me? I had only to look to the law to tell me what to do next and I would know what to expect. There was none of this fumbling around, groping for answers, deciding for myself what to do and then having to wait to see what comes next. It is….”   
  
He paused. Weariness pressed upon him, and he felt for a moment like an Atlas with the weight of his past mistakes rather than the world upon his shoulders. He did not quite dare to close his eyes again for fear he would give into the mad impulse to lean into Valjean’s grip. “It is exhausting,” he concluded, frowning at the inadequacy of the words.   
  
Ruefulness and sympathy briefly warred for control of Valjean’s features before his expression settled into a soft combination of both emotions. When he spoke, it was in a murmur almost as quiet as Javert’s speech. “That is  _life_ , Javert. It is wearying at times. I will not argue that it is not often overwhelming, but it offers a potential for--” Valjean hesitated, flushing again. “For happiness.” There was a twist of his lips that suggested that he too found his choice of words wanting and imprecise.   
  
The dissatisfied curve of Valjean’s mouth was almost comforting, in a strange way. At least he wasn't arguing that Javert’s path was a simple one or that if Javert decided to embrace this idea of mercy and God’s law, he would instinctively understand and know his new place in the world.   
  
He felt almost on steady ground, watching Valjean fumble for words. “Life and happiness,” he said. He tested the words out, curled his tongue around their shape, and felt his own mouth curve in something that wasn't quite amusement. “So you'll take away my certainty, my alcohol, my money, and of course my coats, and in exchange offer me life and happiness, is that it? I don't know what to make of that bargain. And I am not as certain of my future happiness as you seem to be.”   
  
“Most would argue it is a good bargain,” Valjean said. “And some would also say that everyone deserves happiness.” He paused. There was something almost tentative in the way he looked at Javert, as though he hadn't thought Javert would listen at all and now worried that the first wrong word would make Javert lose his temper. It was not an unfounded fear, Javert admitted in the privacy of his own mind. “As to the last, well, from what I have observed, you were pleased when you performed your duty admirably. I believe that if you work towards upholding God’s law, towards advocating mercy, you will find you are a better inspector than before. Would that not be cause for happiness?”

“I see,” Javert said. The pressure in his head was easing. It was growing almost easy to think, to counter Valjean's words with reason rather than ravings on doubt and duty. His mind turned towards something Valjean had said. He raised an eyebrow. “I find that curious.”   
  
Valjean looked puzzled. “Curious?”   
  
“That you trust I will be a better inspector, when you do not trust--” _That girl_  caught in his throat. _Mademoiselle Fauchelevent_  seemed equally awkward. He pursed his lips. “That you trust I will be a better inspector, when you don't trust your own daughter.”  
  
If he had been puzzled before, Valjean was astonished now. His mouth fell open, his eyes widening to saucers. Then he frowned. There was a hint of temper in the way he almost growled, “I trust Cosette.”   
  
“Not with the truth of what you did at the barricade, apparently.”

Though Javert was still pinioned by his borrowed coat, it was Valjean who now looked trapped. His expression was the look of a man who wished to do anything but respond to Javert’s remark. Valjean wetted his lips with his tongue, a sudden flash of pink.  
  
Once more, Javert recalled how close they were to each other. Valjean’s hands seemed to grow warmer against his neck and wrist at the realization, as though the blood running through Valjean’s veins had turned to flame. Javert swallowed and resisted the urge to take a step away from Valjean;  _he_  would not be the one to retreat when it was Valjean who was ready to bolt. He gave a surreptitious roll of his shoulders, but he still couldn't free himself of the coat. He pursed his lips again and watched the way Valjean’s gaze avoided his.   
  
When Valjean said nothing, apparently hoping Javert would change the subject if he remained silent, Javert snorted. He leveled his words at Valjean, uncertain if they were meant as an attack or merely a distraction from the warmth of Valjean’s skin. “Perhaps I am missing something, but I cannot conceive why you might want to keep your actions a secret. Surely she would not be  _displeased_  by your rescue of her intended fiancé! Why make up some silly story about the grandfather and a letter? Surely--”   
  
“We are not going to discuss Cosette,” Valjean said quietly. His tone was dangerously even. Tautness hardened Valjean’s jaw and tensed the hand resting upon Javert's neck.   
  
Javert found that he had no particular interest in another argument, especially not while he was still tangled up in Monsieur Bonnet’s damned coat. Still, he permitted himself an elaborate eye-roll at Valjean’s evasion. “Very well, what do you deem an acceptable discussion then?” When Valjean only frowned, he added, an exasperated bite creeping into his voice, “Or perhaps rather than prattle at each other we might actually remember why I came into your bedchamber in the first place and actually get this coat off of me.”   
  
Valjean gave a little jump, and then blinked at Javert as though he had honestly forgotten that Javert was still ensnared by the coat. The corners of his mouth creased, some of the tension in his face replaced by apologetic amusement. “Right. One moment.”   
  
Javert hadn't thought it necessary for Valjean to draw even closer to free him from the coat, but Valjean took another step nearer, close enough that when he bowed his head, a few stray white curls of his hair caressed Javert’s throat. It was a little difficult to breathe, made more so by a scent which seemed to linger in Valjean’s hair. The other man hadn't seemed the sort who wore perfume, but still the scent tickled at Javert’s nose, curious but pleasant.   
  
Traitorous heat pooled low in his belly; he shuddered before he could repress the reaction. He forced himself to stillness. Thankfully, Valjean didn’t seem to have noticed, but Javert found he could no longer bear the silence. “I should have done this myself,” he grumbled. “I would've done it faster and without--” His voice went hoarse, betraying him. He gritted his teeth.   
  
“There,” was all Valjean said, tone mild. He stepped back.  
  
With a start, Javert realized that he was free. Valjean’s nearness had driven him to such distraction that he hadn't noticed. He rolled his shoulders and grimaced as a joint popped loudly. He took Monsieur Bonnet’s coat from Valjean’s extended hand, folded the coat over one arm, and then turned towards the bed.   
  
“Surely you aren't putting on your coat right this instant,” Valjean said, though Javert already had one arm through a sleeve and it was obvious that he was doing precisely that. Valjean sounded almost dismayed.   
  
Javert paused. “Why wouldn't I?”  
  
Valjean frowned. One hand rose to rub at his jaw. “It is your winter coat. Surely you will get too warm.”   
  
“Only if I wear it overlong in the heat,” Javert said. “I plan to take it off as soon as I return to my apartment--”  
  
“You’re leaving? But we aren't finished.”  
  
Javert, halfway into his winter coat, stared until Valjean flushed. Had Valjean thought they were going to sit down to more tea and conversation? The idea was unbearable. “Yes, we are. I have my coat, and you will tell me where you’ve hidden my money, and then I am going--”

“We are not done,” Valjean said firmly. “You haven't told me if you plan to return to your position as inspector.”   
  
“Good God, you are like a terrier with a rat,” Javert muttered. Pressure began to mount once more in his head at the thought of yet another debate about his future and what he deserved. He grimaced, rubbed at his throbbing temple. “I will think upon it. That's all I can promise.” He caught a certain, tentative hope creeping into Valjean’s expression, and snapped, “I said  _think_  upon it, not that I will resume my duties, Valjean.”   
  
“Yes, I understand,” Valjean said, but still looked damnably pleased. “Do think on it, but remember that you have been a right--”  
  
Javert groaned in dismay. “Enough! If you say one more thing about my being a  _righteous_  man when we both know very well I am not, I will-- I will--” For a moment, he couldn't think of a proper threat. Then he remembered the fury in Valjean’s face when he had seen Javert sitting there with the girl. “I will tell your daughter all about the barricade.”   
  
Valjean had started to pale at the mention of the girl, but now, absurdly, he looked almost amused. “That's no threat,” he said with a certain lopsided quality to his smile. “You have already told her what I didn't want her to know, that I rescued Marius. The details themselves do not matter.” Before Javert could try to think of a proper threat, something shifted in Valjean’s expression. “And I will call you a good man if I so choose, because you have the potential--”  
  
Javert resisted the urge to grind his teeth in frustration. He hissed out an exasperated breath and raised a hand to halt Valjean’s speech. “Stop.  _Stop_  your foolish praises, Valjean. We both know you are exaggerating my integrity and conveniently ignoring my flaws.” He remembered Valjean’s dismay when Javert had described his proclivities. His lips twisted, a sudden bitter taste filling his mouth. “Why else would you, a saint, think and speak so highly of the likes of me, when you already know not only of my failures but also of my depravity?"  
  
“Deprav--” The word seemed to catch in Valjean’s throat. He flushed. “I thought we agreed not to speak of that,” he muttered.   
  
“I don't recall making such a promise. I agreed to stop speaking of it then, but not for all time,” Javert said. A thought occurred to him. He laughed, noiselessly, and shook his head. “Oh, I am a ninny! Monsieur Chabouillet asked me why I didn't deserve my post, and I could not give him a proper answer, not without mentioning you. It did not occur to me to speak on my depravity! I wonder what he might have said, if I had told him how I wished to--”   
  
Pain bloomed in his face, sharp and sudden. He rocked back on his heels, one hand clapped over his throbbing nose as tears sprung to his eyes. He was stupefied by the pain. He couldn't make sense of it. Had Valjean actually struck him? But that seemed unlikely, for when Javert blinked the tears away and lowered his hand he found that Valjean was touching his own face, fingers gingerly running over the ridge of his nose.   
  
Valjean’s hand couldn't hide the rising color in his face. Even as Javert blinked at him, a chagrined smile curved Valjean’s lips. “You made that seem somewhat easier,” he said, almost reproachfully.   
  
Javert opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His mind chased itself in fruitless circles. He closed his mouth and stared at Valjean, well aware that he probably looked like a brainless dolt. “What,” was all he finally managed, and even that word seemed to stick in his throat. He licked his lips and tried again. "Valjean--"  
  
The gentleness in Valjean's hands as they cupped Javert's face was something close to an answer to the question Javert had not managed to ask, though it was an answer Javert's mind balked at comprehending. Javert had a moment to think, rather stupidly, that perhaps he had misunderstood Valjean yet again, and then Valjean kissed him and even that realization fled.

It was a closed-mouth kiss, soft and almost tentative, as though it was Valjean’s turn to ask a question and Javert’s turn to answer.  
  
For a moment Javert couldn't think, much less react. Even the light pressure of Valjean’s lips against his was overwhelming, the warmth in Valjean’s hands banishing all sensible thought. Javert felt as though he’d been turned to stone, standing there mute and stupid. Then something welled in his chest and caught in his throat, strangling him until he had to release it or choke.  
  
When he parted his lips, a short, incredulous laugh escaped, the sound half-muffled against Valjean’s mouth.  
  
Valjean drew back a little, his fingers fluttering against Javert’s jaw as though Valjean thought to release him. Javert resisted the ridiculous urge to grab Valjean's wrists and hold him in place. It was only Valjean's expression, searching rather than angry, that stopped him from putting impulse to action. Valjean's face was flushed almost purple, and even as Javert stared at him, he worried his lower lip with his teeth once more and fidgeted.   
  
“And what's so amusing?” Valjean finally asked, with a slight downward twist to his mouth.   
  
Javert did not let the curve of Valjean's mouth distract him. "Oh, me, of course," he said. Another laugh escaped him at Valjean's puzzlement, this one strange and unfamiliar to the ear because it held honest amusement. His lips drew back into a self-deprecating smile. "It seems that even now you continue to confound me. I didn't think that you wanted-- I thought that you wished me to be silent about my desires because you deplored--" He stopped, the rest of the sentence going unsaid, for at some point during Javert's stammering, Valjean's eyes had lowered to watch his mouth.   
  
Javert thought he now recognized the look he had assumed was disapproval; the look had an entirely different cast to it at present. He wondered if he had missed the surprised heat in Valjean's gaze the other times Valjean had stared at him so, or if it was only now that Valjean let his desire reach his eyes. Want heated Javert's belly and made him too warm. He could feel sweat beading on his brow and realized that he was still only halfway-wearing his coat. He let the coat drop to the floorboards and ignored the dull thud it made against the wood. "Valjean," he said. The name scratched at his throat, came out low and hoarse. "I do not-- if this the only way you think to induce me to-- to embrace happiness and rejoin the police--"   
  
He stopped, frustrated at his lack of eloquence, hating the way unease now clawed at his belly and attempted to dispel the want. The idea of Valjean offering this out of pity was intolerable even to contemplate.   
  
But now it was Valjean's turn to chuckle, though it was wry. "You called me a saint, before. I might try to do good, but I am not so much a saint that I would--" He hesitated, and Javert suspected it was only the fact that his face could not turn redder that Valjean did not blush more. His hands slipped away from Javert's face before Javert could react.   
  
Valjean looked away, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and concluded awkwardly, "I wouldn't offer you this if I...didn't want it as well."   
  
Javert swallowed and wished he hadn't, for the sound was as loud as a pistol report in his ears. Surely Valjean had heard-- but no, Valjean was still studying the far wall, apparently unwilling to look at Javert and see the effect of his words. Javert ran his tongue over his lips and hesitated for a long moment. Valjean had lied in the past about a great many things, but he hadn't lied to Javert the night of the barricade, and Javert didn't think he would lie now about this. He wondered, but did not quite dare to ask, his throat too tight for further speech, precisely  _when_  and _why_ Valjean had begun to want this.   
  
Instead he reached out and pressed tentative fingers to a spot just under the point of Valjean's chin.   
  
Valjean turned startled eyes towards him. His lips parted. His throat pressed against Javert's fingers as he swallowed. "Javert," he said, his name like a question, and then the confusion in his face shifted to something almost like anticipation when Javert leaned forward and kissed him.

Javert had meant to kiss him lightly, to answer Valjean’s tentative kiss with a careful one of his own. But then Valjean made a sound when their lips met, a small, desperate noise in his throat that went through Javert like a lightning bolt and ignited the heat in his belly, stirred his prick between his legs. It was all he could do not to seize Valjean by the collar and drag him closer, or to press their bodies flush against each other and feel if Valjean truly wanted this as much as he did.   
  
He kissed Valjean as though he could not bear to stop, kept kissing him until his lips felt swollen, until his lungs burned and he had to break off to gasp for air like-- His mind shied away for a second, but even as Javert drew back and took in a deep breath, his mind completed the thought almost mockingly: like a drowning man needing air. Another laugh escaped him, quiet and caustic, and he dropped his hand from Valjean’s chin.   
  
He breathed deeply, until the desire that had seized hold of him had eased to something more manageable. He’d closed his eyes at some point during the kiss. Now he opened them. He found that Valjean’s eyes were still shut, though even as Javert watched, the other man’s eyelashes fluttered.   
  
Valjean’s face was flushed, his lips red and swollen, almost bruised-looking. There was a stunned softness to his face, which did not make him look young, they were both too old to look  _young_ , but nevertheless seemed to banish some of the more prominent lines in Valjean’s face. The creases that remained left the impression of being carved there by smiles rather than frowns. Perhaps they had been formed by Madeleine’s patient smiles or, more likely, genuine ones evoked by his daughter.   
  
Javert was resisting the urge to do something foolish like touch the creases at the corner of Valjean’s mouth when the other man finally opened his eyes. There was a half-startled warmth in his eyes that made Javert want to kiss him again, though he restrained himself.   
  
For a moment, Valjean said nothing. His expression shifted to an opaque look. Javert did not dare to break the silence which seemed to thicken the air between them, only gazed back and wished that he better understood Valjean’s expression. He wished, a little bitterly, that he better understood  _Valjean_ , who seemed just as unfathomable as before they had kissed.  
  
“Your cravat’s come undone,” Valjean said hoarsely.   
  
Javert blinked. He must have misheard, he thought, even as he glanced down and realized that Valjean was right. But surely Valjean didn't mean to focus on such an inconsequential thing when there was the matter of what had just transpired, what it meant--   
  
But Valjean picked up the ends of the cravat and began to tie it with quick, nervous fingers. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, his expression settling into a look of concentration that the tying of a cravat didn't warrant. After a moment the cravat was tied; still Valjean kept fiddling with it.   
  
Some of the earlier heat was replaced by sheer exasperation. “Valjean,” Javert said after another few seconds. As Valjean ran a finger under the cravat to make certain it was not too tight, his touch a mockery of a caress, an involuntary growl escaped Javert’s throat. “Leave the damn thing alone.”   
  
When Valjean ignored him, he took hold of Valjean’s wrists. It was only as Valjean’s wrists flexed and he shuddered that Javert realized his error. Before he could loosen his hold and fumble his way through an apology, however, Valjean attempted a smile. It was a lopsided thing. His wrists relaxed slowly in Javert's grasp.   
  
Javert tugged Valjean’s hands down to his sides and immediately released him, not surprised when Valjean shifted his weight and leaned away. He cleared his throat; Valjean’s shoulders tensed. "Valjean," he began, wondering at the way the name turned strange on his tongue. He cleared his throat again and said stupidly, "Well."   
  
Valjean’s face, which had been gradually returning to a normal shade, began to flush again. “I have lost track of the time,” he said before Javert could actually manage a sensible sentence. He looked towards the door to the antechamber and rubbed at the back of his neck. “Cosette said she would be back in an hour’s time, did she not?”

“Yes, I seem to remember she did,” Javert said slowly. He studied Valjean once more, searching for some hint of how to proceed, but Valjean wasn't looking at him, and there was still that damnable opaque look of his shielding his thoughts.   
  
Javert resisted the urge to snarl in exasperated frustration. He wanted to scrub a hand over his face and pace before Valjean like a half-mad fool, to demand of Valjean what he wished of him. Still, did Valjean truly intend to kiss him, announce that he desired Javert, and then change the subject to his  _daughter_  as though nothing had occurred between them? He rubbed at his still-tingling lips as he stared once more at Valjean’s reserved expression in a futile effort to make sense of it. Another caustic laugh choked him, though he did not let it escape his throat. Perhaps he had pressed Valjean too quickly, asked too much of him. To admit desire was one thing; to have Javert throw himself at him like a starving man quite another.   
  
“Valjean,” he began, clearing his throat a third time, but Valjean spoke over him.   
  
“I assured Cosette that I would have some tea before she returned.” The words were said almost hurriedly, as though he expected his daughter to return at any moment when surely no more than a half-hour had passed since she and her servant had departed. “I should keep that promise--” Here Valjean paused, blinking rapidly, and finally glanced towards Javert. Something akin to sheepishness passed over his features. He rubbed at his jaw. “Ah, did you want some tea?"  
  
Javert did not immediately answer. Instead he imagined saying yes. They would sit down to tea, and Javert would watch Valjean’s hands curl around a cup and Valjean’s throat work as he sipped at his drink.   
  
Ardor pooled in his belly at the thought, but it was tempered by the thought that Javert would only be able to watch and not touch, that Valjean would doubtless remind him of the girl's impending presence should he succumb to temptation. He drew back his lips in something not quite a smile. Even the shape of that half-grimace twisted further at the thought of enduring Valjean’s attempts at pleasantries. Even worse would still being present when the girl returned; Javert would be forced to watch the tender way Valjean and the child interacted, to see shadows of her mother in her gestures and expression as she scolded Valjean for keeping Marius’s rescue a secret.   
  
He shook his head and banished the thought before he could brood too long upon it. "I've had tea. Your daughter already played the hostess,” he said. He plucked up his coat from the floor and put it on, brushing any hint of dirt from it. He fumbled with the buttons as he muttered, “Besides, I think it best if I leave before she returns.”   
  
“But--”   
  
It was Javert’s turn to interrupt, cutting through Valjean’s slightly alarmed protest with a sarcastic snort. “I told you, I need to return to my apartment and think over our discussion. Besides, I think it best if your daughter and I do not see much of each other. What are we to tell her should she realize that you and I knew each other before the barricade?”

Valjean winced. Judging by the way his brow furrowed, he was picturing the ensuing conversation and wasn't pleased by what he had imagined. “I hadn't considered that,” he admitted. “And she  _will_  realize it, no matter how carefully I phrase things.” A small smile formed upon his lips, sincere and almost absurdly sappy. “She is clever, Cosette. Perhaps you noticed--”  
  
“Valjean, I am not remaining here to listen to you sing your daughter's praises,” Javert said a little impatiently. The bedroom’s window was shut; the room was almost stifling, and, with his winter coat, the heat was proving nearly unbearable. He finished buttoning his coat despite his desire to remove the layer and roll up his sleeves. He raised his hand to snap his fingers at Valjean, and then thought better of it. He extended his palm instead and twitched his fingers when Valjean looked puzzled. “Now just return my money and I'll go.”   
  
Something flickered upon Valjean’s face, the sentiment there and gone before Javert could name it. Still, there was no mistaking Valjean’s hesitant tone as he said slowly, “Your money?”   
  
“Yes, my money.” When Valjean did not immediately move to fetch it, Javert pursed his lips and huffed in exasperation. “What is the matter now? Surely you don't expect me to rush out to the nearest wine-shop.”   
  
“No,” Valjean said, but without, Javert thought darkly, much conviction.   
  
“Well, I won't,” Javert snapped, and did not add a testy _However tempting the thought may be_ , for that would only ensure that he would never see that money. He folded his arms against his chest. He drummed his fingers against his arms when Valjean only frowned. “I have said I will think on your words, so let me return to my apartment and  _think_.”   
  
“Very well,” said Valjean, though still in that slow, uncertain tone. He turned and retrieved a small purse presumably holding Javert’s money from behind one of the books on the nearest bookshelf. “Perhaps you should take a cab,” he suggested quietly. “Wearing that coat in this weather will do your health no favors.”   
  
Javert, who was already beginning to perspire merely from wearing the coat indoors, did not argue. He took the purse from Valjean. Despite his care, their fingers brushed during the exchange. Javert gritted his teeth and ignored the way his breath caught in his throat at the inadvertent touch. Yes, leaving now was best. He would be able to think more clearly at his apartment, away from Valjean.   
  
“Will you….that is-- your bandages still need changing, do they not? Should I visit tonight?”   
  
Javert paused in the middle of tucking the purse into his pocket. He looked carefully at Valjean, but found only honest concern on Valjean’s face. If Valjean had thought further upon what re-bandaging Javert’s throat would entail-- being close enough to kiss again, Valjean’s hands once more upon Javert’s throat in something too close to a caress-- the idea did not bring the embarrassed flush back to his face.   
  
“Tomorrow,” Javert said, banishing such thoughts from his mind. “Surely you and your daughter will have much to discuss.” When Valjean looked ready to protest, a now-familiar mulishness creeping into his expression, Javert added somewhat sharply, “ _Tomorrow_.”   
  
“Very well,” Valjean said, though the mulishness remained in his expression.

Javert tucked the purse into his pocket, making certain it was safely ensconced there before he looked at Valjean again. He was not entirely surprised to find Valjean still frowning, a furrow creasing his forehead.   
  
“I will see you tomorrow,” Javert said, though he had said the final word so often in the past few minutes that it seemed nearly meaningless now. He took up Monsieur Bonnet’s coat, draped it over one arm, and then started towards the door.   
  
This time Valjean didn't protest or attempt to intercept him. He even took a step back so that he wouldn't block the exit, a gesture for which Javert refused to feel grateful. When Javert passed him, Valjean drew in a breath as though to speak; Javert didn't let his pace slow or show any signs of hesitation, and after another second, Valjean let out the breath, slowly.   
  
Javert’s hat was on a table where the servant had left it. He took it up as well, settling the hat carefully upon his head. He could feel Valjean’s gaze against the back of his neck, but Valjean still said nothing. _Tomorrow, then_ , rose to Javert’s lips, but he clenched his teeth against the words and refused to say anything so inane.   
  
At least Valjean did not follow him down the stairs. Javert blinked against the summer sun, half-blinded by the light for a moment. Then he strode resolutely forward, heading towards a more-traveled street where he would better find a hackney cab. He could no longer feel the weight of Valjean’s gaze and didn't know if the other man watched him through his window. He didn't look back, but kept his steps measured, an unruffled contrast to the way his stomach roiled uneasily and how his mouth refused to forget the way Valjean’s mouth felt on his.

 

* * *

  
  
Javert discarded his winter coat as soon as he was in his room. Even taking a cab and escaping the direct sunlight had been misery; the coat’s fabric was too thick to be comfortable even in the slightly cooler darkness of the cab.   
  
He brushed away sweat from his forehead, looking sourly around his room. Everything displeased him and turned his mood darker. There were the cases Chabouillet had left behind, a reminder that doubtless Moreau and Comtois would be visiting tomorrow with their bewildered, accusing looks. There were fresh bandages in a neat pile, a reminder that tomorrow Valjean would be there once more to confuse him. There was a covered plate of food, a reminder that he had not yet eaten today and Madame Bonnet would scold him the next time she checked in on him.   
  
His stomach pinched at him in rebuke. He uncovered the plate, slowly began to pick away at the food. He could barely taste it, his thoughts consumed instead by his conversations with Valjean and Chabouillet.   
  
Every time Javert forced Chabouillet’s rueful, “Javert, you are as likely to resign as I am. Even if you attempt it, you will find yourself half-mad from boredom within the month, if not the week,” from his mind, it was swiftly replaced by Valjean’s unbearably earnest, “What if this new way of considering the law means you might be able to help people who would have suffered otherwise?”  
  
Javert rubbed at his forehead, trying to drive off the men’s words. His earlier headache grew once more, dull and throbbing. He grimaced and ignored the way his full stomach remained unsettled. He needed to think of a suitable occupation to throw in Valjean’s face tomorrow, and yet here his mind failed. He attempted to imagine taking up another job, something he would excel at. He could think of nothing. Instead his mind taunted him with the details of the Montmartre case and the knowledge that the criminals remained at large.   
  
“Damn,” he hissed through his teeth. He closed his eyes, but now his thoughts turned to the kiss and the way Valjean’s face had looked afterwards, the scent of him, the feel of his hands and mouth. Javert swallowed, thickly. “Damn,” he said again, louder, and fumbled blindly for his hat and his coat.   
  
Anything would be better than thinking of how Valjean had immediately sought to pretend nothing unusual had occurred. Perhaps this was another act of cowardice, running away from his own thoughts, but Javert found himself not overly concerned at this particular moment.

The station was busy with its usual mid-day exchange of the guard, and more than a few men had their hands half-raised in automatic greeting before recognition and surprise colored their expressions.   
  
“Inspector!” Moreau started over towards him, smiling broadly. “I knew that Monsieur Chabouillet was not being serious. Are you--” The young man’s voice faltered as Javert strode past him.   
  
It was irritating, the lack of surprise upon Chabouillet’s face when Javert marched into his office. He merely raised an eyebrow, cast a quick look at Javert’s winter coat, and said, “If you wish to be there for Pascal’s attempt at an interview of the de Varley servant, he is at the hospital.”

"Yes, sir," Javert said with a sharp nod, and then turned on heel and headed back out into the summer heat. 


	5. You Hold Life Like a Face Between Your Palms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here is the fifth chapter since the final chapter was turning into like, 25,000 words, heh. The final chapter should be finished by the end of the month, barring any unforeseen things. Thank you for your patience!
> 
> Content warnings are at the end of the chapter.

“…you hold life like a face  
between your palms, a plain face,  
no charming smile, no violet eyes,  
and you say, yes, I will take you…”

\- “The Thing Is” by Ellen Bass

 

* * *

 

"Javert!" Pascal said, catching sight of him as he stepped into the hospital room. Relief lightened the other man's features. "I knew Chabouillet wasn't-- but come, I was just about to attempt an interview." Pascal turned back towards the bed, saying in a tone of forced cheerfulness, "You see, Monsieur Coultier? This is the inspector I mentioned, the one who has been following this case from the very beginning. He will see justice done."  
  
Javert repressed a wince. He didn't make such promises as a habit, and with fifty-three houses robbed by thieves who might as well have been ghosts, he certainly wouldn't have made one to this particular victim. He stepped to the bed, keeping his expression neutral as he looked at the broken mess the Montmartre gang had made of Coultier. Javert's gaze swept over the bandages that hid most of the damage, but bruises covered seemingly every inch of Coultier's skin.   
  
Coultier's remaining good eye, blackened, blinked at him, his expression impossible to read beneath the bandages and bruises.   
  
"Monsieur," Javert said, and took off his hat. Anger coiled in his stomach. He didn't think of Chabouillet or Valjean now, only looked at the bandages which hid Coultier's possibly ruined eye, and silently vowed to do his utmost to see the thieves did not harm anyone else. "I understand that the thieves broke your jaw and hands. I won't make you attempt to speak."  
  
Coultier's head moved minutely in the smallest nod of acknowledgment.   
  
"Instead I shall try something I witnessed in another interview for a man who couldn't speak. I will ask you a question, and you will answer by blinking once for no and twice for yes. Is that acceptable?"  
  
There was a pause, and then Coultier blinked twice, very quickly.  
  
"Thank you, monsieur. If you need to stop, simply close your eyes and count to ten. Do you understand?"   
  
Another two blinks.  
  
Javert began the interview. Would Monsieur Coultier recognize any of the thieves if he saw them again? Yes, Coultier confirmed fervently, blinking twice several times. Had any of the thieves referred to each other by name? No. Were there any women among the thieves? No. Did he believe that he saw all of the thieves? Coultier hesitated, but confirmed yes. Were there two thieves? No. More than five? No. Less than five? No. So Monsieur Coultier saw five thieves altogether? Yes.   
  
Slowly over the next half-hour, Javert constructed a picture of the gang. Coultier thought them all between the ages of twenty and forty. Two had been tall and the other three of medium-height. There was some trouble about the hair color, for Coultier had seen them only briefly by candlelight before they had fallen upon him like wolves. He thought most of them had been dark-haired, except for one with reddish hair, but could not be certain. He had not seen any particular scars or tattoos.   
  
Coultier's eye fluttered shut then, and Javert began to count to ten. At seven, Coultier's eye opened, but Javert could see the weariness in that pale face.   
  
"Thank you, monsieur," Javert said. "You have been exceedingly helpful. I have no further questions at the moment, but may Inspector Pascal and I return if we think of more?"  
  
Two slow blinks answered him, and then Coultier's eye shut and remained closed.   
  
"If only they had called each other by name or had a particularly striking tattoo," Pascal said ruefully once they were outside the hospital. "Still, this is far more than we had before!"   
  
"Yes," Javert agreed. He frowned thoughtfully. "We should speak to that witness again, the one who claimed he saw an unfamiliar woman leaving one of the houses the night it was robbed. She might not be an accomplice as we suspected, but she could prove another valuable witness."   
  
"That's a good thought, Javert. We should--" Pascal stopped abruptly. When Javert glanced at him, the other man was frowning. "Javert? Why are you wearing your winter coat? And what the devil happened to your throat?"   
  
Javert sighed. The sun beat relentlessly down upon his frame, sweat pooling under his collar. "It's a long story," he said flatly, and didn't let himself think of Valjean.   
  
"Ah," Pascal said. He was smart enough not to press for more details.

They'd only been out in the sunlight for a minute or two, and yet already perspiration beaded Javert's forehead and threatened to drip into his eyes. He wished, irritably, that Valjean had given his winter coat to the washerwoman instead, even if his summer coat  _had_ doubtless smelled of beer. "Let's get back to the station-house and out of this heat."   
  
"Yes," Pascal said. Then his frown deepened. He cocked his head to his left. "Do you hear that?"  
  
"Hear w--" Javert began. Then he heard what had caught Pascal's attention: voices raised in anger. He started towards the shouting, Pascal matching his pace and falling into step beside him.   
  
They turned the corner of the boulevard in time to see a man, a fruit-seller if the cart nearby was his, grip a gamin's ear and twist it as the boy howled in protest.   
  
"What seems to be the problem here?" Javert demanded over the boy's yells. His hand dropped to his side even as he eyed the crowd, studying the interested, curious faces. His hand groped air. He realized with a start that he didn't know what had become of his baton or his cane.   
  
"These gamin have been stealing my apples, messieurs," the apple-seller said. He released the boy, only to clutch the boy's shoulder and hold him in place a second later before the gamin could flee. "Every time they lurk by my cart, apples go missing."  
  
"We ain't stolen nothing!"   
  
This was said in outrage by another, slightly older gamin, his dusty face scrunched in fury as he scowled at the man. He turned towards Javert and Pascal. Some of the outrage gave way to earnestness. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. "Me and my brother, we just look. Nothing against the law about looking. We're not thieves."   
  
Javert opened his mouth to speak. Then he hesitated, studying the boy's solemn features. Before he would have taken the apple-seller at his word, assumed the gamin were liars and thieves, and arrested the boys on the spot, if only for causing a public disturbance. Now he found himself searching the boy's thin, pinched face for clues to his sincerity.   
  
A memory sprang, unbidden, of the children of Montreuil flocking to Madeleine's heels and begging for coins. "And did you catch the boys red-handed, monsieur?" The question escaped his lips before he realized he had decided to ask it.   
  
"Well," the apple-seller said slowly, "no, not as such, but I assure you, monsieur, once I count my apples, we shall find--"  
  
"Excuse me, monsieur." Javert listened to his own even, polite voice in vague astonishment. "But you must understand that we cannot act on your suspicions alone. There must be an actual crime if we are to arrest these boys. Boys, turn out your pockets."   
  
Both boys obeyed with alacrity, tugging at the pockets of their ragged trousers. They had a single stale roll and a few centimes between them, but that was all.   
  
Javert turned his gaze upon the crowd, catching a few disappointed faces. "The boys might have stolen an apple and then thrown it away when this gentleman apprehended him," he said. "Did anyone see one of the boys pitch an apple away from him?"  
  
A few of the onlookers shook their heads in denial. No one spoke.  
  
After a moment of silence, Javert turned back to the apple-seller, who had flushed a dark red, and the boys, who stared at him with wide eyes. He fished his purse from his pocket. "How much for six apples?"

"Monsieur?"

"These boys don't seem to have stolen your apples, but this incident has wasted your time and cost you customers and money. Let me buy some apples for the boys so you may continue with your day."  
  
"Ah, yes, monsieur," the apple-seller muttered, some of his anger fading at the sight of Javert’s purse. He named his price.  
  
The six apples were duly purchased. Javert handed one to Pascal and tucked one into his own pocket. Then he offered the other four to the boys, who accepted them with silent, wondering looks. "I suggest that you find some other apple cart to look at, one whose owner doesn't object," he told them.  
  
Then he glanced at the crowd. "Well? Unless one of you has something to confess or a crime to report, the matter is settled. Good day."

It wasn't until they had turned the corner that Pascal spoke, his tone cautious. "Javert? That was...not how you usually handle these matters. Did you know those gamins?"  
  
"No." Javert could feel Pascal's stare. He tugged at his whiskers and frowned. "There was no evidence of a crime, but the man would have kept us there another half-hour, moaning about the fruit. Buying some apples appeased him well enough." It was partly the truth, but still enough of an evasion that Javert repressed a scowl.   
  
"I suppose," Pascal said, sounding unconvinced. A minute later, he chuckled. "Well, whatever your reasoning, Javert, you seem to have attracted their attention."  
  
Javert turned, frowning, and caught the flash of fluttering, tattered cloth as the gamins ducked behind a post. His steps slowed. Exasperation and almost alarm tightened his jaw. "Doubtless they hope that I will give them more food," he said after a moment. "They'll give up once they realize I am not some alms-giver." His mouth twisted upon the last word despite himself.  
  
"If you say so, but I've found strays to be stubborn."  
  
Javert scowled. He was no Madeleine, to have these gamins trailing after him. And Pascal's poorly hidden amusement rankled. He resisted the urge to swear under his breath. The story would be all over the station-house by the end of the day. Within the hour if Gravois was on duty, for the man gossiped more than any woman Javert had ever known.  
  
"We should interview all of the victims once more," he said, watching with some satisfaction as the amusement left Pascal's face and consternation replaced it.  
  
" _All_ , Javert? But that's over a hundred people, surely."  
  
"True enough, but now that we know the gang's number and have some physical description, perhaps someone will remember something useful."  
  
"But that means over a hundred interviews!" Pascal's dismay was obvious.  
  
"We'll get Comtois, Moreau, and perhaps Pelletier to help us."  
  
"That's still at least twenty-five interviews each," Pascal grumbled. As it was said mostly under his breath, Javert ignored the complaint.  
  
He didn't glance over his shoulder to see if the boys were still following them. Readjusting his hat in a vain attempt to ward off more of the summer sun, he resumed his steady pace towards the station-house.

 

* * *

 

The gamins were waiting for Javert when he emerged from the station-house that evening. He halted on the steps of the building, staring at the boys in unfeigned dismay. The map of Paris and the Montmartre case file started to slide out from under his arm; he belatedly adjusted his grip and scowled.  
  
"Are these your gamins then?" Gravois asked. "The ones Pascal was telling us about?" The younger inspector stepped around Javert to study the boys, amused and fascinated curiosity in his watery blue eyes.  
  
"They are not my anything," Javert said sharply. He turned his scowl upon the boys, who stared back, unblinking and apparently unconcerned by his displeasure. "What are you doing here?"  
  
"You gave us apples 'stead of arresting us," said the older boy.  
  
"Yes, I remember. That doesn't explain why you are here..." Javert reached into his pocket for his watch and realized that he had left it behind at his apartment or at Valjean's. His lips twisted in exasperation. "...what must be seven hours later."  
  
"You believed us," said the younger boy in a matter-of-fact tone.  
  
"I  _believed_  the evidence," Javert said, his dismay only increasing as Gravois smiled. He shook his head in bewildered aggravation. The summer evening was cooler than the day had been, but he was still too hot. It made it difficult to think. "Are you here to, to express your gratitude then? There is no need. Besides, if you  _had_  stolen the apples, I would've arrested you."  
  
Gravois made a strangled sound. When Javert glanced over, the man's face was almost purple, his arms wrapped around his belly as he chortled to himself. His mirth only increased as Javert scowled at him.   
  
The older boy shrugged. "We don't steal," he said, as though that settled things.  
  
_No, I suppose you do not,_  Javert thought, looking at the way hunger pinched both boys' faces and how tightly their skin stretched over their collar-bones.  _Or else you might look less like skeletons and more like children._  
  
Some of the confidence left the eldest boy's thin features. He licked his dry, cracked lips. "We thought you might have errands for us," he said.  
  
Javert blinked. "You wish for...work?"  
  
"We don't steal," the boy said again. This time he spoke with a trace of impatience in his voice, as though the boy thought Javert was particularly slow-witted. 

"Sometimes we eat food that folks throw out," the younger boy offered quickly. "But it--" He fell silent at the older boy's look. His humors were too disturbed by hunger to turn scarlet, but nevertheless a pale flush colored his face.  
  
"I do not," Javert began, and then stopped, considering. Well, he still did not know what to make of unquestioned charity, but this wouldn't be charity. It would be giving the boys honest work. Hadn't he begun his career as a messenger, working his way to the position of a guard at Toulon?  
  
He cleared his throat. "I don't have work for you today, but tomorrow we'll be sending many letters out to households all across the city. Will you be here tomorrow morning at ten to help to deliver the letters?"

“Yes, monsieur!” the boys said as one, nodding so fervently it was a wonder that their heads did not fall off their necks. The younger gamin stared at Javert in a wide-eyed way that he disliked, a look that skirted too closely to the ones the children had showered upon Madeleine.  
  
He cleared his throat, thoroughly disconcerted both by the gamins' expressions and by Gravois's continued chortling. "Good. Now go--" He stopped, dismayed at his own thoughtlessness, for he had come very close to telling the gamin to go to a house they clearly did not possess. He fought down the flustered heat that crept up his throat and colored his cheeks. "I'll expect you at ten o'clock. Do not be late."   
  
Then he strode past them. Javert didn't quite dare yet to pray to Valjean's more merciful god, uncertain of how to speak to Him, and yet he found himself half-holding his breath and hoping that the gamins would not follow. Judging by the way Gravois's chortling turned into loud, wheezing laughter, however, Javert's hope had been a false one. He didn't look over his shoulder. Perhaps if he ignored them, they would give up. That sometimes worked with the cats that prowled his neighborhood and occasionally begged him for food.   
  
He continued to walk, folding his arms against his chest despite the urge to clasp them behind his back and the unsettled knot in his stomach. He kept his pace even and unhurried, fixing his gaze ahead to the cobblestone and passerby. It was only once he arrived at the doorstep to his house and rang for the porter that he dared to turn around.   
  
"We can't sleep in the alley by the station," said the older boy, as though that explained everything. "They'll chase us off."   
  
_So you plan to sleep in my alley instead?_  was on the tip of Javert's tongue, the question sharp and incredulous, but then Madame Bonnet was at the gate.  
  
"Monsieur Javert!" the good woman exclaimed, her hands on her hips and a smile of mixed relief and rebuke upon her face. "The doctor was here for you this morning, but I told him to return tomorrow at eight. I hope--" Her voice changed suddenly, turned softer and curious. "Are these boys with you, inspector?"   
  
"We'll be working for him tomorrow," the youngest boy said proudly before Javert could think of an adequate and truthful answer. "We'll be messengers."   
  
"I see." This was said slowly and in a puzzled tone as Madame Bonnet looked a question at Javert. Some of his helpless consternation must have reflected in his face, for her confusion gave way to poorly concealed amusement. The corners of her mouth twitched. She unlocked and opened the gate. "Well, I don't doubt that Inspector Javert will have you running all over Paris tomorrow. You two will need a good meal."  
  
"We had two apples," the younger boy informed her, though the eldest had caught Madame Bonnet's implication and looked hopeful.   
  
"Madame Bonnet," Javert said, not quite in protest. Then he stopped, grimacing. Well, if she wished to feed the boys, it was no concern of his. She would simply have to deal with them when they returned to her doorstep like half-starved cats hoping for further meals.   
  
Madame Bonnet didn't acknowledge his mutter; instead she smiled at the gamins, an unfamiliar gentleness in her face. "Well, it happens that I have some stew keeping warm on the stove for Monsieur Javert. If you boys wash your hands and faces at the pump in the yard, you both may have some."   
  
"Yes, madame," the older boy said quickly, followed a beat behind by the other. The gamins darted past Madame Bonnet and over to the water pump.   
  
"Madame Bonnet," Javert said as the boys began to pump water into a nearby bucket. "You need not-- that is, I don't expect-- I will pay--"  
  
He stopped, for Madame Bonnet was smiling at him in honest amusement. "Monsieur Javert," she said. "It will do no harm for me to give the stew to the boys rather than save it for tomorrow's supper. And the boys are all skin and bone. They need a good meal." A strange look passed over her face, and her smile turned wistful. "And it would be nice to have children in the house."   
  
Javert, who knew only that Monsieur and Madame Bonnet had no children and who had never thought much upon the matter until now, said only, "If you say so, madame."

The wistful smile lingered upon Madame Bonnet's face for a moment. Then she shook her head and flapped her hands at Javert. "Please, go and put your things away, monsieur. And take off that coat! You'll upset your humors wearing a winter coat in the middle of summer." Before he could answer her or explain that his summer coat was being cleaned, she turned away.  
  
She walked over to where the boys were determinedly scrubbing at the dirt still coating their faces and hands. "Let me have a look at you both," she said, one hand on her hip. The boys held up their hands for inspection. Javert couldn't see her expression, but there was something in the set of her shoulders that made him think the good woman was repressing laughter. "Well, you've tried very hard, but I think perhaps you will need some soap to defeat that dirt. Let me fetch some."   
  
"Yes, madame," said the older boy, followed by the younger's louder, "Thank you, madame."   
  
It was only when Madame Bonnet turned and blinked at him that Javert realized he was still standing there, eavesdropping. He fought back an embarrassed flush and made his way hastily into the house and to his room.   
  
Taking off the winter coat was a relief, although he noted with a grimace that he had sweated through his shirt. He changed into a fresh one as well as another waistcoat. The map and the case file were set upon his desk for the time being. He eyed his winter-coat for a moment, hesitating over propriety, and then grudgingly went down for dinner. Madame Bonnet would excuse him being in his shirtsleeves, if her earlier words had been any indication.   
  
When he came back downstairs, the boys had apparently earned Madame Bonnet's approval, for they were seated at the table and devouring the stew that the good woman had set before them. They were too intent on their meals to even look up when Javert entered the room, though Madame Bonnet spared him a brief glance and cheerful, "Oh, let me get you your dinner, monsieur."   
  
Javert sat at the table, choosing a chair next to Monsieur Bonnet, who had no bowl in front of him but instead was studying the boys with an expression Javert couldn't read. It was bewilderment, perhaps, a sentiment Javert surely shared. He still did not quite understand how breaking up an argument in the middle of the street had led to Madame Bonnet's house being invaded by two gamins, and yet there they were, slurping at the stew, their faces red from being scrubbed clean and the ends of their hair still wet.   
  
"So," Monsieur Bonnet said slowly, "you boys work for Inspector Javert."   
  
For a moment, Javert didn't recognize the other man's tone; then, astonished, he realized that the man was curious and trying not to show it. He resisted the urge to stare as Madame Bonnet set a bowl before him. Still, in all the years Javert had lived here Monsieur Bonnet had showed little interest in anything save for alcohol and perhaps when the rent was due. Javert hadn't thought curiosity to be a trait the man possessed, much less that his curiosity would be stirred by these gamins.   
  
"Will be, starting tomorrow," said the older boy, pausing in his meal. The other gamin didn't look up from his stew. "As messengers."   
  
"The police are conducting a great many interviews over the next few days," Javert explained. "The--" He realized that the boys had never offered their names. He floundered briefly. "The boys will be delivering the letters for us."   
  
Monsieur Bonnet frowned. "They'll be walking all over Paris in this weather?" He turned a little in his chair, and then grimaced, going a little green. Apparently going a full day without alcohol, if indeed he had not hidden some away somewhere, disagreed with him. "Louise, you should pack them breakfast."  
  
This caught the younger boy's attention. He looked up, his expression brightening. "Breakfast? Lazare--"   
  
But if the younger boy's face had lit with hope, the older boy's had darkened; he now watched Madame Bonnet warily, as though this was all too good to be true and he was trying to figure out the trick.   
  
Madame Bonnet must have guessed Lazare's thoughts, for she nodded and wiped her hands on her apron. "I'll need help washing the dishes tonight if I'm to pack them some breakfast, but we have bread and beans to spare."

At the mention of a chore, some of the wariness left Lazare’s face. Kindness, it seemed, was suspect, but food in exchange for work he understood. He straightened a little in his chair. “Me and Bernard can help, madame,” he said, and then nudged the younger boy until he swallowed another mouthful of stew and agreed.   
  
The rest of the meal passed in relative silence, the boys more inclined to eat than to converse. Even Madame Bonnet was quieter than usual, her gaze fixed thoughtfully upon the gamins. Javert finished his stew with no small amount of relief. Despite the good meal and the water he had drunk, his head ached. He had been too long in the summer heat with his winter coat and too bewildered by the strangeness of the day. He longed to escape to his room. “If you will excuse me,” he said, rising to his feet. “I have letters to write.”   
  
“Good evening, monsieur,” Madame Bonnet said absently, her attention still on the boys. Javert had just passed through the door of the kitchen when he heard her ask, “And where are you meeting the inspector tomorrow?”   
  
Javert hesitated, flustered. He had almost forgotten that the boys planned to spend the night in the nearby alley. He looked back and caught a look of embarrassment cross Lazare’s face as the boy ducked his head and muttered some vague answer.   
  
Madame Bonnet was not an unintelligent woman. Javert saw her expression tighten, a calculating glint spark in her eyes. Then her look cleared. She said briskly, in a tone that did not invite argument, “Well, it is already late. It makes more sense for you to stay the night and go with Monsieur Javert to the station. We’ve a spare bed you can share.”   
  
Bernard looked hopeful until he saw the look on Lazare’s face. He sank back a little in his seat and fidgeted with his spoon and frowned into his empty bowl as Lazare scowled and bristled, apparently inclined to argue despite Madame Bonnet’s tone.   
  
Javert hastily made his exit, closing the kitchen door behind him as the boy began to argue. Something of the desperate pride in the boy's face troubled him, for he understood pride too well, and how dangerous a thing it could be. He had had pride in his apparent irreproachability, and look where it had led him: back into the gutter he had spent his life fleeing.   
  
His room proved an insufficient sanctuary from his own thoughts, which grew blacker with every step away from the kitchen. As soon as he was inside, his thoughts turned again to Valjean. Valjean had said that he wanted this _thing_  between them, and had seemed in earnest with his flushed cheeks and dark eyes, though Javert could scarcely believe it.   
  
Even in his shirtsleeves, Javert grew warm in remembering how Valjean’s fingers had fluttered against his skin, the sounds Valjean had made as they’d kissed. And yet Javert doubted Valjean’s reasons for answering Javert's kiss with one of his own. He didn't doubt that Valjean desired him, though that Valjean  _did_  baffled him. But again he wondered if Valjean had admitted to his desire only in another desperate effort to keep Javert alive, if otherwise Valjean would have kept silent.   
  
Valjean had argued against that reason, but Valjean actually desiring _him_ , a fool who had only harmed Valjean and treated him as the worst of creatures—the thought was ludicrous.   
  
Javert’s stomach roiled. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. His gaze fell upon the case-file and map, and a humorless laugh escaped his lips. Here he stood dithering, when there was work to be done! At this moment, however, his stomach and mind still unsettled, the letters seemed a daunting task. He ignored his weariness and reached for the map, tacking it to the wall.

Then he forced away all thoughts of Valjean and set about lighting a candle, for the dusk was losing to the night now, the room growing dim. That done, Javert opened up the case-file. He circled and dated the first robbery location upon the map. Sitting at his desk, ignoring the pounding of his head and the distant sound of Lazare still arguing with Madame Bonnet, he began to write the first letter.

He had just started on his second letter when there was a knock at his door. Before he could utter a word, Madame Bonnet entered, brandishing the water jug at him. She wore a grimly satisfied smile as she set the jug down at his elbow and announced briskly, “Well, monsieur, the boys will be staying the night.”   
  
Javert took in her flushed face and the stubborn set of her shoulders. He wondered how she had managed to break past the boy's pride and convince him to stay the night. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. “I suppose I shouldn't offer to pay for their stay or the two meals,” he ventured, voice a little dry, and Madame Bonnet let out a quiet laugh. He fidgeted with his pen, trying not to think too hard on the strangeness of two gamins sleeping in the house. He fell back on inconsequential things. "Thank you for the water, madame."   
  
"You're welcome, monsieur," she said. When she didn't leave after a moment, Javert glanced at her. The good woman wore an unreadable look. She ducked her head a little when their eyes met, a small flush spreading across her cheeks. "Well, monsieur, I noticed your friend has not come this evening. Should I tell Pierre to expect him?"   
  
"He is not my--" Javert stopped, hearing the sharp note too late. He didn't allow himself to think of Valjean's tentatively hopeful look as he'd agreed to reconsider quitting the force or the way Valjean seemed intent on his happiness in a myriad of unsettling ways. He pursed his lips. "That is to say, Monsieur Fauchelevent will visit tomorrow evening, madame." Catching a worried flicker in her eyes and guessing at her concern, he added, "I shall handle my bandages tonight."   
  
He'd guessed correctly, for relief lightened Madame Bonnet's expression. "Oh, good! Then I will see you in the morning, monsieur. Good night!"   
  
After she had gone, Javert touched the bandages at his throat and huffed out a humorless laugh. He hadn't forgotten his injuries, precisely, for they'd throbbed and stung all day, but they were minor inconveniences compared to the turmoil of his thoughts. He shook his head, struggling to focus once more upon the letters. He lifted his pen once more and bent over the letter to Monsieur de Travere.  
  
_So you see, monsieur, we would be exceedingly grateful if you would consent to another interview. If you are willing, please give a note to the messenger detailing when you will be available, and we shall arrange another interview._

 

* * *

 

The next evening found Javert walking slowly and tiredly back to his apartment, resigned to the sound of Lazare and Bernard's footsteps behind him. As before, they'd appeared at the bottom of the steps at the end of his shift, long after they had been dismissed and given their pay for their day's efforts. Javert had ignored Chabouillet's slightly amused, "So these are the gamins I have heard so much about." Instead he had walked past the boys without a word and found himself followed by both the gamins and Chabouillet's quiet, poorly stifled laughter.

Now, reaching the gate of the house, he wondered if Madame Bonnet would invite them in again. If she did, he wondered whether Lazare would argue or consent without protest to another meal. Before he could so much as test the lock or ring for the porter, however, Monsieur Bonnet was hurrying towards the gate. Javert couldn't remember the man ever being so prompt. Either the lack of alcohol in the house was doing Monsieur Bonnet some good, or he'd been watching from the window.   
  
"Well! And how was your day?" Monsieur Bonnet asked, looking straight past Javert. His face, normally flushed and dazed from wine, was friendly, his lips drawn back in a welcoming smile as he unlocked the gate.   
  
Enlightenment dawned. Javert wasn't certain whether to laugh or sigh as Bernard said proudly, "We went all over Paris with letters!" It seemed that he would not escape the company of the boys even now. He tapped a fist against his coat pocket, frowning. Surely, if Madame Bonnet intended to keep the boys here for a few days rather than a single night, she would not object to Javert paying for their room and board....  
  
"Ah, inspector," Monsieur Bonnet said, blinking at him as though just noticing his presence. "Your friend is waiting in your room." Javert's expression must have changed, for Monsieur Bonnet's eyes widened a little and he added hastily, "He hasn't been here very long! Perhaps twenty minutes or so."

Javert said nothing. He hadn't forgotten Valjean would be here in the evening. No, it had been quite impossible to forget that! And yet somehow during the mad scramble of planning dozens of interviews he hadn't considered that Valjean might arrive here  _first_. He wondered how many polite smiles Valjean had offered Madame Bonnet before she'd taken pity on him and suggested that he wait for Javert upstairs. Doubtless at some point in the stilted conversation Madame Bonnet had told him of Javert's return to work. He imagined her soft laughter and cheerful chattering.  
  
_And so he has returned to work, monsieur! Even the doctor seemed pleased by his decision, although he cautioned Monsieur Javert against doing too much too soon, after so much strain and injury. But you know the good inspector, monsieur. We shall have to hope and pray that he listens to the doctor's advice!_  
  
Monsieur Bonnet licked his lips and added, looking a trifle anxious, “We  _did_  offer him some supper, rest assured of that, monsieur, but he thanked us and said he had already eaten. If we were wrong--”  
  
"No," Javert said, finding his voice at last. He repressed another grimace, for surely Monsieur Bonnet would take his frown as a rebuke. He shook his head. "No. I did not-- That is, I had not expected him so soon." Belatedly, he noticed the lit lamps and realized that it was early evening. Smothered in his winter coat as he was, and distracted by thoughts of work, he hadn't noticed the cooling air and darkening sky. Dryly, he added, "Or rather, that I would be kept so long at the station."   
  
To Javert’s surprise, Monsieur Bonnet chuckled at this. "Yes, monsieur. Louise thought you might be late, knowing how you'd want to catch up on all your work and try to do a week's worth in a day! We've kept supper warm." His smile towards the boys indicated that he included them in that last remark. "Did you wish for your supper now, or after Monsieur Fauchelevent has seen to your bandages? Louise's already brought up the fresh water."   
  
"After," Javert said, though his empty stomach pinched at him for the choice. Still, it was untenable, the thought of eating his supper while Valjean watched, his gaze touching Javert’s hands, his mouth. Heat and tension twisted low in his stomach. He inclined his head, aware that Lazare and Bernard were following the conversation with wide-eyed interest. "If you will excuse me, I shouldn't make Monsieur Fauchelevent wait any longer."   
  
"Yes, monsieur." Monsieur Bonnet's attention shifted to the boys. With a cheerful laugh, he said, "Well! Louise says I'm to perform the inspection tonight, so when you two have washed your hands and face to my satisfaction, we'll get you both some supper!"   
  
Javert walked up the stairs slowly, feeling more weary and aggravated with every step. He had thought to have at least a half-hour to ready himself for Valjean's presence, to try and make sense of Valjean's actions from the day before. He dithered for a moment in the hallway outside his room, reluctant to enter. He took off his hat and passed a hand over his face, grimacing.   
  
He was struggling with the ridiculous notion to knock at his own door when it opened and Valjean peered out at him. And  _there_  was the look that Javert had been dreading, the pleased crinkling at the corner of Valjean's eyes and the tentative warmth in his voice as he said, "Ah, Javert! Madame Bonnet told me that you were at the station-house."   
  
"Yes," Javert said, more harshly than he meant. The slight smile went from Valjean's face. Javert's stomach roiled, this time from remorse rather than hunger. Valjean might be maddening, with his strange fixation on Javert's happiness and his apparent inclination towards kissing someone and then changing the conversation to something banal, but he deserved better than this petty harshness.

Javert twisted his hat in his hands, frowning down at it, and muttered, not quite an apology, "It has been a long day. I have written more letters during these past few hours than I have in my entire life. If we could tend to my bandages quickly so that I might eat and sleep...."

When he looked up, he found that Valjean now frowned, his brow furrowed in concern. It was an all-too familiar look. "You didn't eat at the station? I can wait, if you need to--"  
  
"No!" Javert said, though his stomach pinched him again. "No, let us--" He gestured vaguely with his hat.   
  
Valjean pursed his lips but stepped aside.

Javert walked past Valjean, acutely aware of his presence. Valjean had stepped back enough that there was no chance of them accidentally brushing elbows, and yet Valjean's cautious gaze felt like a questioning touch to Javert's tensed shoulders. When Javert set his hat aside, he found that he had twisted the brim all out of shape in his anxiety. He didn't grimace, but it was a near thing.

Removing his winter coat was a relief; the reassuring weight of it in the winter proved oppressive in the summer. Instantly he felt lighter, less trapped, though still too warm and too aware of Valjean, motionless next to the door. Still Valjean said nothing. Doubtless he worried that Javert would snarl at him again if he so much as breathed wrong, Javert thought sourly, irritated with himself.

"Well," he said, to break the silence, aware that his tone was still too curt, "I am sorry to have kept you waiting." He paused, but Valjean kept quiet. Struggling, for he'd never been good at conversation or gentling his tone, he said, "I didn't expect to stay so late. We made some headway on the Montmartre case yesterday."

Valjean spoke at last, his tone mild. "I haven't been here very long." Finally the door closed; there was the creak of the floorboards as Valjean moved, and then silence again as he stopped before Javert's desk. "Is this for the case?"

In the middle of removing his cravat, Javert turned.

Valjean studied the map upon the wall. His gaze moved slowly across the map, seeming to linger upon where Javert had circled and noted the robberies. Something like astonishment touched his expression. He shook his head. "It's one thing to read about fifty robberies in your report and another to see all of them displayed on a map."

Javert struggled with a response. He didn't want Valjean to say that yesterday had been a mistake, but he didn't want Valjean to avoid the topic, either. Frustration welled in him; he threw his cravat onto the bed. He remarked, a trifle dryly, "Yes. I'd hoped that seeing all of the robberies on a map might provide some better understanding of how the thieves work, but so far it has done nothing but taunt me with their successes."

He waited, expecting some vague reassurance on Valjean's part. When there was none, he paused in opening the armoire. He was arrested by the look on Valjean's face, a strange look he had never seen before. "What is it?"

"It is," Valjean said slowly, and stopped. He reached out and did not quite touch the map, his fingertips skirting the edges. His eyes were narrow. He looked thoughtful, and Javert felt anticipation flutter low in his stomach. "Perhaps it is nothing, or perhaps I'm about to say something obvious, but I know a few of these areas."

Javert abandoned the bandages and went to stand next to him. He peered at the map, but it provided no new revelation for him. He wondered what Valjean saw that he did not, and why he felt this curious certainty that Valjean was about to solve at least one mystery in the Montmartre case. "Is there something strange?"

One corner of Valjean's mouth twitched. "No, not exactly, but--" He pointed out four of the houses. "These houses that the thieves chose...every single one of them has an entrance that leads out into an alley. Didn't you say that no one has seen the thieves enter the houses? This could be why."

Javert squinted at the map, trying to picture more of the robbed houses. Had others also had an alleyway entrance? He leaned closer, trying to remember, but there were so many. Still, his blood warmed and the back of his neck prickled with excitement. "It may be nothing, but it may be everything. Well! It will be a question to ask in the interviews!" Then a thought struck him and he laughed, earning a startled look from Valjean. "If that is how the thieves choose their victims, we may even catch them this week. There is a gentleman throwing a party who has asked us for security. If we can get his guest list and look at the houses, we may-- well!" He turned, almost dizzy from excitement, and clapped Valjean on the shoulder as he had seen others do at the station-house.

Valjean tensed under his touch and then just as swiftly relaxed. A tentative smile touched his lips, almost shy. "Well!" he said. "I hope I have helped."   

The smile recalled Javert to himself. He was aware of how near he stood to Valjean now, having drawn closer in his eagerness to understand Valjean's thoughts on the case. They were as close as they had been the day before, when Valjean had leaned forward and kissed him. Embarrassment muted most of his enthusiasm; his face warmed. He retreated to the armoire as the silence turned uncomfortable. He repressed a twitch, for Valjean's gaze felt like a light touch to the back of his neck.

He broke the silence with the first thing that came to his mind. "I should send a letter to the station with our theory, for they were still scheduling interviews for the morning when I left." He frowned a little, thinking of the gamins downstairs, no doubt in the middle of their meal by now, and muttered, "Though I suspect that I would earn Madame Bonnet's displeasure if I sent them out so late...."   
  
He straightened, his arms full of bandages, and turned to catch Valjean's puzzled look. "Your landlady carries messages to the station on your behalf?"   
  
Javert blinked. "What? No, the boys--" He stopped. The long day and choosing to wait on supper had dulled his wits. Obviously the brief conversation between Valjean and the Bonnets had not included any mention of the boys. He remembered the way Lazare and Bernard had followed him back to the apartment, tagging along at his heels as though he was some pale imitation of Madeleine. Grimacing, he explained, the words feeling slow and awkward on his tongue, "Ah. Well. I employed two gamins as messengers for the Montmartre case yesterday. It seems that Madame Bonnet has taken it upon herself to have the boys spend the next few nights here, so that they don't have to sleep in some alley."  
  
Valjean smiled, and Javert's breath caught in his throat. This was no tentative smile, no small slant of Valjean's mouth. No, this was warm and bright, wiping away every unhappy line from Valjean's face and drawing out all the pleased creases at the corner of his mouth and his eyes, the latter of which shone with sudden good humor. The smile did more than banish the grim lines from his face; it banished all sensible thought from Javert's mind, except the ridiculous, desperate desire to keep Valjean smiling so. "That is kind of her," Valjean said.   
  
Javert swallowed thickly. "Yes," he managed after a moment. "I've offered to pay her for their room and board since I do not know how long these interviews will take, but so far she has refused any money." The smile was still there upon Valjean's face, and Javert found himself scrambling for something, anything to say that would keep it there. "The boys are downstairs, eating supper no doubt. They came in with me."

He hesitated again, and then thought suddenly of the schools in Montreuil-sur-Mer that Madeleine-- no, that _Valjean_  as Madeleine had created. He cleared his throat. "They seem to know at least this area of the city well enough, and have been well-behaved so far. If, ah, if they learned their letters, perhaps they could continue as messengers for the station after this case ends." That had been how he had gotten his start with the police, after all, grimly learning his letters until he had known every street in Toulon and had proven himself reliable to the officers there.   
  
The smile, Javert was glad to see, didn't diminish even as Valjean made a thoughtful sound. He drummed an absent beat against his leg. "If you think it a good idea, I could speak to them," he said after a moment. "I know a few places where they could learn without being worried that they might be taken to a foundling hospital."   
  
"Of course you would know of such places," Javert said before he could consider the words. Valjean blinked at him in surprise. Once again Javert's face warmed. He fidgeted with the bandages and wet his dry lips with his tongue. "That is to say, I remember your devotion to education in--" Almost too late he kept himself from saying Montreuil-sur-Mer. Still the specter of the town hung between them, Valjean's expression beginning a slow shift once more to neutrality. Something twisted low in Javert's stomach to see that smile fade. Quickly, he said, "I might have known your interest would continue even now. Perhaps you've even started a school or two here in secret."

His words banished some of Valjean's reserved look. The corner of Valjean's mouth creased ruefully. "No, you'll find I have funded no secret schools," he said with a small shake of his head. His expression turned almost embarrassed, his cheeks coloring faintly. "Though I have helped a few nearby schools, of course, when there was need...."   
  
"Of course," Javert said. It was easy to imagine Valjean, full of concern, listening to the teacher or priest's explanation of their troubles, easier still to picture him bringing the needed materials or coin to the man the following day and smiling vaguely at any expressions of gratitude. The bandages began to slip from Javert's arms; he hastily bent his head and adjusted his grip. When he was certain that he wouldn't drop the linen, he looked back up at Valjean. His stomach dropped. In his distraction he had missed the last vestiges of Valjean's smile give way to that damned neutral look.

"Well!" he said briskly, ignoring his sharp regret. "Let us do this."   
  
"Yes," Valjean agreed, but his tone had gone vague. His gaze settled on the basin, which Madame Bonnet had left on the desk beside the case-files. He made no move towards it. His fingers tapping out a quick beat against his side, he asked slowly, "Will, ah, you allow me to tend both your wrists and throat today?"  
  
Javert didn't immediately answer. Silent, he studied the tense set of Valjean's shoulders and the way the other man now avoided Javert's eyes. His stomach soured with something he told himself wasn't disappointment. It was as he'd suspected, then. Valjean regretted yesterday; obviously he did not welcome the thought of such close contact but was set to endure his discomfort for the sake of Javert's health. Well, Javert had caused him enough grief and discomfort; he would not push the matter further.   
  
He cleared his throat. "I'll do my own wrists," he said, striving for a matter-of-fact tone. "It is enough that you must venture out after dark because of my delay. I shouldn't keep you further with something I can do myself." He frowned, a sudden thought striking him. "You are at least planning to take a cab home, are you not? You shouldn't walk home this late. It is dangerous."  
  
Valjean's small smile was unexpected but welcome, though Javert wondered what Valjean found so amusing. Did he think it ironic that Javert would chide him for walking alone in the streets when he had wandered the streets of Paris for days, an intoxicated temptation for all and any pickpockets? "I will take a cab," Valjean said, drawing Javert from his thoughts. He took off his coat as he had before. The lamplight caught on the pale hairs on his forearms as he rolled up his sleeves, and upon the muscles there.  
  
Javert's face warmed. He hastily busied himself with placing the bandages on top of the case-files. He tried to think of some distraction, something he could focus upon as Valjean's hands touched his throat. "How is the boy?"   
  
Valjean paused in reaching for a piece of linen. He looked half-puzzled, half-pleased by the unexpected query before his expression turned grave. "The doctors are still uncertain if he will live. We shall have to wait and pray."   
  
"Ah," Javert said. He did not know what to say. Perhaps Valjean might welcome some platitude, but Javert had never been good with such. He frowned instead and removed the old bandages from his throat, grimacing at the feel of the dirtied bandages, for he had sweated and suffered throughout the day in his winter coat.   
  
His distaste must have been obvious, for Valjean said, "I should have your summer coat tomorrow." When Javert turned, he found that Valjean stood waiting with a wet cloth. "How long did the doctor say you will need the bandages?"   
  
"Another few days," Javert said. He was struck by another thought. Would Valjean then consider his duty discharged? Surely he could not be  _enjoying_  Javert's company, for Javert had only snapped and snarled and overstepped himself these past few days, for all that Valjean claimed a mutual desire. Surely he would be glad to return to his apartment and not think of Javert any longer. His throat tightened, as though the bandages were back upon his neck, and too tight. He swallowed. "Come on, then," he said into the silence, his voice harsh even to his own ears.

Valjean frowned, but whether it was at the tone or the state of Javert's injuries, Javert could not be certain. Still, he said nothing, his expression settling into its usual grave lines; he merely pursed his lips a little and pressed the wet cloth to one of the welts. 

Despite Valjean's gentle touch, pain sparked, low and throbbing, in Javert's throat. He suppressed a flinch. The feel of Valjean's rough, warm fingers against his skin was unbearable, so like and unlike the way Valjean had touched Javert's face and held him still for a kiss. Valjean's head was bent close to his, his brow furrowed and his mouth shaped in a frown of concentration.

He had freckles, Javert noticed with a start, faint but there, half lost upon Valjean's tanned skin. It should not have been surprising, for even in Montreuil-sur-Mur Valjean had often wandered the nearby woods, and yet Javert caught himself counting the freckles in astonishment. He closed his eyes and swallowed down an exasperated laugh at his own absurdity. If counting proved a good distraction, he would count his breaths instead; that was surely safer for his sanity. He was breathing with careful precision when Valjean spoke.

"Will you tell me how the Montmartre case proceeds?" Valjean's hands stilled upon Javert's neck as Javert opened his eyes and stared at him. Javert must have looked as baffled as he felt, for Valjean's expression turned puzzled. He asked slowly, frowning a little, "Is it so strange that I might be interested in the case?"

"No," Javert said. "But how shall I tell you? Once the doctor declares me well, you'll have no reason to visit--" He stopped, startled by the exasperation that colored Valjean's look. "What?"

Valjean's frown deepened. His eyes had narrowed; a speculative gleam lit them. He didn't speak, but only looked at Javert for a long, uncomfortable moment. At that penetrating look, Javert was acutely aware that he was in his shirt-sleeves and that he must appear ridiculous with his shirt gaping at the neck and the bandage half-wrapped around his neck. Still frowning, Valjean asked, "Are you still convinced that I am here out of some sense of obligation, then? That as soon as the doctor says you are well, I will leave?"

"Well," Javert said, or tried to. His mouth was dry; the word caught in his throat. He swallowed and wished for water. He didn't quite dare to look away from Valjean, not even to find the jug. "Well," he said again. "I don't see why you would visit otherwise. I am hardly pleasant company." Valjean's lips parted as though about to speak, and Javert added hastily, "You surely cannot argue against that! I have been rude, I have been ungrateful, I have been vulgar, I have forced my desires upon you when you--" He stopped at Valjean's strangled laughter.

"Javert," Valjean said. His hands rose from Javert's neck; one hand dragged down Valjean's face, as though he grasped for words. "You have said it yourself. You are building a new place and purpose in this world. Better men than you or I would lose their temper at times during such an exhausting, daunting task."

He paused, and once again his cheeks turned pink. His gaze slid away from Javert's. He directed the next sentence in a low mutter to the map. "And as for the last, well, if you are about to say that I don't know my own mind in this, that I kissed you because I felt it was the only way to keep you from doing something foolish, you are not--" He stopped with a helpless laugh. He clasped his hands behind his back, ducking his head a little. Even his ears were red now as he said, "If I seem uncertain, it is because this is all new to me. I am as much in the dark as you."

Before Javert could speak, Valjean continued, speaking quickly now as though he thought Javert would interrupt. "Javert, I understand what it means to come to a crossroads and know that your next choice will decide the fate of your soul and the course of your life. I know what it is to be alone and confused, caught between two opposite paths. I had no one but God and the words of a saint to help me along my new path." He smiled, unexpectedly, a tentative turn of his lips. "I'm no saint, but I am, I hope, better than nothing. I wish to help you if I can, but there is no obligation."

"You are wrong," Javert said, and cursed his thoughtless phrasing as the smile vanished from Valjean's face. He fumbled for the right words, ignoring the mocking voice in the back of his head that said he sounded like a fool. "If there are saints in the world, surely you are one of them. Don't object! You claim that I am an honorable man when I harmed many with my blind devotion to law--"

For a second that woman's wan, stricken face appeared before him, her desperate pleas that she must remain free for the sake of her child ringing in his ears. It took a great effort to swallow and continue. "--and yet you cannot see the goodness in yourself. You risked death and imprisonment to rescue the boy your daughter loves; you saved  _me_ , a man who has only ever wronged you; you continually strive to do good for a world that has only rejected and mistreated you." He swallowed, an embarrassed flush creeping into his face, for Valjean was staring at him as though he now spoke in tongues. He felt more foolish than ever.

Roughly, almost angrily, he said, "You speak of better men than you or I, and yet I cannot imagine such a man, for  _you_  are the best man I've ever known. That you might enjoy my company is baffling, for I hardly deserve such good fortune."   
  
Valjean said nothing. There was a matching pink upon his cheeks, and his lips were parted as though he intended to speak but could not think of what to say. At last, Valjean shook his head. "You do me too much credit," he said softly. There was another slight smile upon his lips, but it was tinged with self-recrimination. Valjean shook his head a second time, closing his eyes briefly. "Surely saints do not wish harm upon others, and I have-- when I learned that Cosette cared for the-- the boy, I hated him. Even as I carried him through the sewers, I hated him, because he was going to take Cosette away--"   
  
"Admittedly I know very little of scripture," Javert interrupted dryly, "but I seem to remember even Christ losing his temper once."   
  
This shocked a disbelieving laugh out of Valjean. "First a saint, and now you compare me to-- that is blasphemous, Javert!"   
  
Javert folded his arms against his chest and frowned. Once more Valjean mystified him. He studied Valjean's still-shocked look, trying to think of a convincing argument. His frown deepened. He didn't know how to appeal to Valjean's reason, when it seemed Valjean wouldn't see sense. He pursed his lips. "I don't understand how you see good in everyone but yourself. What does it matter if you hated the boy? That dislike didn't stop you from saving his life."   
  
"But--"  
  
"No," Javert said. "You cannot say in one breath that I am a good man, and then in the next claim that you are not. If you insist that you're no saint, very well, you are perhaps too exasperating and baffling to be one! But I will not hear that you are not the best of men."  
  
"Javert," Valjean said. He laughed helplessly. He passed his hand over his face once more and dropped his gaze. Rather than convince him, Javert's words seem to have only made him uncomfortable. "Please. We should-- I should finish bandaging your wounds so you can eat and sleep." This was said half pleadingly, as though Valjean feared Javert would heap more praise upon him.   
  
Exasperation welled. Javert swallowed down a curse as someone knocked a clumsy beat upon the door. Half-snarling, he snapped, " _What_?"  
  
There was silence. Then, cautiously, Lazare said, "Madame Bonnet said to ask about supper, monsieur."   
  
"Ah." Javert grimaced as his stomach twisted at the reminder of food. He glanced at Valjean, who still looked disquieted. "Another five minutes, I think."   
  
"Yes, monsieur."   
  
Exhaustion replaced Javert's exasperation. He fought to urge to rub a hand over his face as Valjean had. "But we are talking in circles. Come. Doubtless your daughter is wondering what has kept you. Let us get these bandages on."   
  
"Very well," said Valjean quietly. Perhaps there was relief in his face, perhaps not. Javert couldn't guess, but Valjean's hands were quick and steady as he finished bandaging Javert's throat.

Javert said nothing. In truth, he didn't know what to say. He certainly didn't wish to discuss the baffling idea that Valjean might welcome his company, but any attempt to speak of Valjean's virtues only seemed to make Valjean uncomfortable and unhappy, the very opposite of Javert's intention. Was this why Valjean had lied about rescuing the boy, because he hadn't wanted praise from his daughter? Then again, Javert considered, recalling that the doctor was in doubt for the boy's chances, perhaps he hadn't wanted the girl's condemnation should the boy die.

Valjean's hands stilled and then lifted away. He stepped back, his gaze lowering as he unrolled his cuffs, all muscle and scars concealed once more by his shirt-sleeves. Javert unwillingly watched the movements; his eyes were still fixed upon Valjean's hands, those laborer's fingers that had always distracted him even in Montreuil-sur-Mur, when Valjean murmured, "What time should I come tomorrow?"

Javert looked up hastily. His cheeks heated faintly, and he felt as though he'd been caught staring, but Valjean didn't seem to have noticed, for he was peering thoughtfully at the map and all the circled houses. Javert's lips twitched into a sardonic smile at the image the question conjured, of Valjean once more smiling vaguely at Madame Bonnet as she tried to pry the story of his and Javert's acquaintance from him. He wondered what manner of half-truth Valjean would give her, how he would react to Madame Bonnet calling him Javert's friend, and then dismissed the thought. He shook his head. "I suspect that the interviews will take quite some time." He hesitated. "Perhaps I should send you a letter at the Rue de l'Homme Arme tomorrow...."

He made the suggestion cautiously, for surely Valjean would find it queer to have Javert of all people write a letter to him, but instead Valjean smiled that tentative smile of before, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little as though the idea was pleasing rather than strange. "I shall expect your letter," he said, taking up his hat and coat. Then he paused. "The boys. Do you know their names?"

"The eldest is Lazare, the youngest Bernard." Javert wondered a little at the way Valjean's smile widened. Javert had employed them and they had slept under the same roof this past night. Surely it wasn't strange that he would know their names. He cleared his throat as Valjean put on his coat. "You will take a cab, as you promised?"

"Yes, Javert," Valjean said, still smiling. If Javert had wondered before at his smile, he was bewildered by the half-indulgent way Valjean answered him, as though he was soothing Javert's nerves. Valjean looked one last time to the map, his gaze passing slowly over Javert's notes. After a moment he shook his head and refocused upon Javert. "Good evening. I wish you luck in the interviews."

"Thank you." The silence felt awkward, his response inadequate even as Valjean turned towards the door. Wetting his lips, Javert added, "Good night." Then, remembering the sweltering misery of the winter coat in the June heat, he added, "And my summer coat--"

Valjean's laugh was strange and unfamiliar. He turned back, his smile both amused and apologetic. "Yes, I’ll bring it tomorrow." The corner of his mouth creased and he added, "And if the good woman has not finished with your coat, I will buy you a new one myself."

About to object, Javert realized it was a jest. He pursed his lips instead and said dryly, "Good night, Valjean."

"Good night, Javert," Valjean said, and was gone, the door clicking quietly shut behind him.

The room seemed strangely quiet and empty in his wake. Grimacing at himself, Javert busied himself with unwrapping his wrists and turned his thoughts to the interviews tomorrow, and the possible break Valjean had made in the case. Or at least he made the attempt to concentrate on tomorrow, for each time he thought of Valjean's observation, he remembered Valjean's shoulder, warm and tense with surprise beneath his touch as he'd clapped him on the shoulder, and then his thoughts turned to Valjean's hands on his jaw, his mouth against his.

He huffed out an exasperated breath, pushing such memories away. He thought instead of Coultier's injuries and what the Montmartre gang might do, left unchecked. It was a sobering thought. With Valjean's help, perhaps Javert might stop these men once and for all. He wrapped the bandages firmly around his wrist and then straightened at the knock upon the door and Madame Bonnet came inside, bearing a plate and a smile. 

 

* * *

 

Chabouillet's office was large, as befitted the secretary to the Prefect. Still, the twelve men standing at attention before his desk had turned the room from spacious to crowded.

The air felt stifled and thick in his lungs as Javert drew in a breath. With a great effort, he kept his expression attentive and attempted to quell his rising impatience, one which had grown ever since Lazare and Bernard had brought him the guest list for Monsieur de la Fontaine's party. Nevertheless, he wished to be gone from this room and away to his assignment. All his instincts clamored that tonight was the night and that the Montmartre gang lay within his grasp. Soon he would truly begin to make amends for decades of mistakes.  _  
  
Soon I will be able to tell Valjean of how the gang will harm no one else and to see him smile_ , a voice whispered in the back of his mind.   
  
Inwardly he grimaced at his own foolishness. And yet these last few visits had been unbearable. He and Valjean had continued to talk in circles, for Valjean still refused to accept praise and Javert continued to be baffled by the thought of Valjean enjoying his company. Certainly during these past few days there had been little evidence of the latter, for while Valjean's hands were always steady upon Javert's throat, he otherwise had kept his distance, and alternated between flustered smiles and rambling about his daughter and the boy's health. Javert, in turn, had stumbled through the banality of polite conversation, offering updates on the Montmartre case whenever Valjean ran out of things to say and the silence turned uncomfortable, which was frequent.

At the very least, he thought dryly, Valjean smiling at Javert's success would be a change of pace. 

Chabouillet cleared his throat. "I shall be brief, messieurs. You know why you're here. You'll be guarding three houses tonight that match a potential pattern of the Montmartre gang." His stern gaze traveled over the assembled men. From the corner of his eye, Javert saw Moreau straighten, his cheeks flushing in excitement, the eagerness to capture the gang shining in his eyes. Chabouillet's gaze seemed to rest a second longer upon Javert than the others. Perhaps that was only his imagination, however, for in the next second Chabouillet said briskly, "Lavoie, Linville, Javert, you are in charge of each house. You shall have three men under you." 

He paused. Others might not have seen the sudden tension in his face or recognized the slight curl of his mouth that meant displeasure, but Javert had known the other man for nearly as long as he had been in the police. He recognized frustration in Chabouillet's face. Doubtless he was still vexed that Gisquet considered this a wild goose chase. Despite Javert's careful explanation, in which an unnamed friend had noticed the connection between several of the victims' houses, M. Gisquet had refused to allot more men to this attempt to capture the gang. According to the Prefect, Chabouillet had recounted privately to Javert, four heavily armed officers with the element of surprise should be enough to overwhelm five thieves. Taking any more men from the vital task of tracking down escaped insurgents was considered a waste of resources. 

Javert, remembering the insurgent who lay half-dead in a house upon the Rue des Filles-du Calvaire and the queer carriage ride that had brought him from the sewers to safety through Valjean and Javert's shared effort, hadn't found it in himself to argue his point, except to request three more men, to make the numbers equal should the gang attempt to rob one of the houses. The request had been refused.   
  
He was drawn back to the present by the sound of his name.   
  
"And Moreau, Comtois, and Royer, you shall be working with Javert," said Chabouillet. "Armistead, Girard, Poulin, you will be with Lavoie. Perrot, Vipond, Denis, you will follow Linville's orders, understand?" At the enthusiastic chorus of "Yes, monsieur!" he fixed the assembled men with a stern look. "You may have the element of surprise, messieurs, but from what little we know of the gang, we believe there are at least five men, perhaps more. We don't know if they are armed, but we shouldn't assume otherwise. We've lost enough good men to death and injury with this recent unpleasantness. I expect no one to take foolish risks." He studied the group again, and once again Javert had the impression that Chabouillet's gaze lingered on him. "Any questions?" After a moment of silence, he nodded. "Well! Good luck, messieurs."   

At the dismissal, Javert paced towards the door, eagerness welling once more in him so that it was all he could do not to leave his men behind. "Moreau, Comtois, Royer, with me," he snapped over his shoulder, and didn't wait to see if they were following before he strode into the hallway. "I want us there as soon as possible, so that we can learn the lay of the house before Monsieur de Gagnon's family leaves for the party. He expects us shortly."   
  
"What if the gang is watching the house, monsieur?" Moreau asked, catching up to him. "If they spot us, they'll flee, won't they?"   
  
Javert barked out a laugh. "Yes. That is why we'll turn their own trick against them and use the alleyway ourselves. They won't know we're there until it's too late." He cast a quick glance at the sergeants, and added dryly, "And even if they spot us entering the house, we will not announce ourselves as police. I want you all to change into clothes that make you look like servants. Which means you will have to borrow someone else's unfashionable hat, I'm afraid, Royer."

Royer flushed faintly, for his attempt at being a dandy was a joke among the officers. He touched the brim of his hat, which was fashionable but a trifle worn. "Yes, monsieur. I can ask Allard for his spare hat." 

"Good. Now, Monsieur Chabouillet has offered us use of any of the station's weaponry. The gang will outnumber us and we'll need to be armed. However, be sensible! You don't want to weigh yourselves down. How would we explain to M. Chabouillet that one of those scoundrels escaped because we couldn't keep up with him in a pursuit? No, I won't tell you what to bring, but as for myself, I will keep to two pistols and my truncheon." 

"Yes, monsieur," came the chorus, and Javert lengthened his stride, eager to be gone. 

 

* * *

 

The house was quiet save for Javert's breathing as he sat at the table and waited.

The alleyway entrance led directly into the kitchen, but he had re-positioned the table so that it was out of the doorway's direct line of sight. He would be able to see the men, but they wouldn't see him until it was too late and they were all inside. Both of his pistols, loaded and checked multiple times, lay within easy reach. Several pairs of handcuffs were also on the table. Moreau waited upstairs at a window that overlooked the alley, watching for their approach. Comtois bided his time by the front door in case the thieves entered from the main entrance. Royer had concealed himself across the street, truncheon in hand, ready to cut off access to the alleyway should the thieves try to run.

Impatience had shifted to a restless anticipation, the kind that made Javert want to get up and pace, or to check his pistols for the fifth time. He quelled both impulses and took his watch from his pocket instead, his fingers brushing against his snuff-box. He squinted through the dimness and frowned at the time. Nearly ten o'clock! He didn't know when the thieves would strike, but surely it would be soon. They would want to give themselves time to search the house and bring away all the valuables before the party ended, especially after de Varley's servant had surprised them.

He returned the watch to his pocket with a shake of his head. Well, either the thieves would come here, or to one of the other two houses, or they wouldn't. Only time would tell if Javert would report a successful arrest of the thieves to Valjean tomorrow evening, or if he'd report his failure.

Something scratched at the door, like a pick worrying at the lock, and Javert straightened, his hands going to both pistols. They felt strange for a moment in his grip, unfamiliar, even as he pointed them towards the entrance. A few seconds later, the door creaked open.

The half-moon cast the thieves mostly in shadow as they sauntered into the kitchen, but the arrogant, fearless way they entered made Javert's eyes narrow in distaste. Five men entered, one carrying a covered object, and then stopped. The last thief turned and closed the door. In the next second Javert had to squint against the sudden flare of light as the other thief threw off the concealing fabric and a lit lantern dazzled Javert's eyes. 

They would be able to see him now, and so, pointing the pistols in the men's direction and smiling a little in a way he knew unnerved most men, Javert rose to his feet. He remarked, "Well, gentlemen, I am afraid you've chosen the wrong house to rob this evening! If you'll put down that lantern and come along quietly...." His eyes adjusted to the light at last, and he realized with a growing sense of disquiet that the men didn't look surprised or even alarmed. A few of them were actually smirking. 

One of the men stepped forward. The lantern's glow fell upon his reddish-brown hair; the strands gleamed like flames. Coultier had been accurate in his description of the thieves, Javert thought, studying the men's faces, for all of the men were nondescript. There wasn't even a broken nose among them, nothing distinctive to mention in a report. The redheaded man smiled, showing yellowed teeth, and sketched an elaborate bow. "Good evening, Monsieur Javert!"  

Javert kept his grip steady on the pistols, silent as he considered the relaxed way the men stood, as though they had been expecting him. He wondered how he had lost the element of surprise. Had Moreau been spotted in the upper window? He listened for a second, but if Moreau or Comtois were racing to join him in the arrest, he could hear nothing of their quick footfalls. "I am afraid you have the advantage of me," he answered at last. "You know my name, but I don't know yours." 

The man barked out a laugh and clapped his hands in apparent delight, smiling at his compatriots. "The devil! I thought the rumors weren't true, but you don't scare, do you, inspector? Even five against one!" He used  _tu_ ; the over-familiarity made Javert grind his teeth, though he hid his irritation. "Call me Chaput."

Javert didn't snort, but it was a very near thing, for that surely was not the thief's real name. He pointed one of the pistols directly at Chaput and said, politely disbelieving, "Well, Chaput, I must correct you on one point. It is not five against one--" He stopped at the shouts of laughter; his disquiet increased at how the thieves made no effort to be quiet. And still there was no sound of Moreau and Comtois rushing to his assistance, or Royer shouting an alarm, just the amused mirth of the thieves. 

"Oh, monsieur, we know  _that_ ," said Chaput with a shake of his head. "It was supposed to be four against five. Your man explained it all. You've got a man upstairs and another at the front entrance." He wore a half-pitying smile now. "The one at the window didn't see us, by the way. He has no idea we're here." 

Javert went cold. It was a great effort to keep his expression puzzled rather than alarmed. "It sounds like my man was quite helpful," he said slowly. "Strange. He's usually not so talkative." 

There was a sudden flash of metal in the lantern light. The knife that one of the thieves held up for inspection was long and sharp. There was no blood upon the blade, but Javert's gaze settled upon the cuff of the man's shirt, which was covered in unsettling stains that no laundress would be able to get out. "Well," the thief said with a smirk, provoking another round of laughter from his companions, "he _was_ trying to save his fingers at the time." 

Rage burned hot in Javert's chest. He pictured Royer at the hospital next to Coultier, his hands swathed in bandages. He dropped his unruffled look and bared his teeth. "Chaput, I hadn't thought you so stupid! If you've hurt my man, you won't escape the guillotine." 

Chaput shrugged, still smiling. "We'll take our chances, monsieur." He nodded to the man with the knife. The thief stepped forward, apparently unafraid of Javert's second pistol, which Javert swung to point directly at his chest. "Besides, killing the man who arrested the Patron-Minette will earn us a drink from every criminal in Paris."  

Javert made his decision in a second. He didn’t like to use his pistols, for shooting a criminal had always seemed like a failure on his part, that he had been forced to rely on brute force rather than intelligence, but he could see no other way. He raised an eyebrow. "Kill me? I don't think so, Chaput." He aimed his pistols carefully. 

The pistol retorts were loud in the kitchen. The man holding the lantern dropped it; his howl of pain had just started as the lantern shattered. The room plunged into darkness. There was a second thud half-lost beneath the thief's screams as a body hit the floor-- hopefully the man with the knife, but Javert didn't stop to check. He turned instead and bolted for the door that led into the hallway. He dropped one of the pistols and lunged for the doorknob. If he could get to Comtois--

Hands caught hold of his shoulders and dragged him backwards. "Not so fast, inspector," Chaput panted into his ear, no longer amused. 

Javert struck out blindly with his second pistol. He heard Chaput curse as the blow landed, but Chaput's grip tightened rather than loosened. Javert tried to lash out again, but someone wrenched the pistol from his hand. He groped for his truncheon, still in his coat pocket, half-dragging Chaput's weight towards the door as he struggled.

His hand closed upon the truncheon. He didn't have a chance to draw it from his pocket. Pain bloomed, sharp and sudden, just above his left ear. His vision grayed, his strength and all sensible thought knocked out of him. He felt his legs give out, and he sank to his knees, helpless. He tried in vain to blink away from spots in his vision. He felt the beginning of a second blow, pain spiking in the same spot, and then nothing, a sudden darkness. 

Javert regained consciousness reluctantly, in agony. His head pounded. A groan escaped his lips as a blow struck him on his side, his ribs protesting the abuse. From the pain that flared with each breath, it was not the first time he’d been kicked while unconscious. When he tried to shield himself from further blows, metal bit sharply into his wrists. They'd used his own handcuffs on him, he realized, and that thought brought him fully back to himself. He opened his eyes, blinking. They must have found a way to relight the lantern, for it illuminated the room. 

He couldn’t see very well out of his left eye, but when he turned his head a little, he saw the body of the thief who'd held the knife; one of the other thieves had dropped a handkerchief over his face. The thief who had held the lantern was still alive, but unconscious, his face deathly pale in the light and gleaming with sweat. Javert's shot had struck his shoulder. The wound still bled sluggishly. Chaput was bent over him, apparently examining the injury.

He straightened, fixing Javert with a dark look. "He'll live, no thanks to you," he snarled. 

Javert attempted a smile, though one side of his face felt swollen and disinclined to obey him. He struggled into a kneeling position. "If you get him to a surgeon he'll live, you mean. How will you explain his injury?" he asked. This time he wasn't surprised at the blow. He rocked back on his knees, unable to repress a grunt of pain. 

"Monsieur Javert! Monsieur Javert!"

It wasn't only his head that was pounding, he realized, turning his good eye towards the source of the yells. During his bout with unconsciousness, the thieves had barricaded the door to the hallway. Comtois seemed to have lost his head and was throwing himself against the door in a series of desperate, ineffectual attempts to get it open. Javert drew a breath to order Comtois away before they decided to try and shoot him through the door. His breath escaped in another grunt as the nearest surviving thief kicked him. 

His vision grayed once more. This time he managed to stay conscious as Chaput walked across the kitchen and knelt in front of him. Chaput's hand was still wet with blood as it gripped Javert's chin and forced his head up. His expression was cold; he seemed more irritated by one man's death and another's injury than upset. "I want to kill you slowly, but we don't have time," he said. He sounded regretful. He paused, as though hoping for Javert to protest or plea for his life. 

In the ensuing silence, Javert realized that Comtois had stopped yelling and throwing himself against the door. That was something, at least. Perhaps he'd had enough sense to go with Moreau for help. Hopefully he wasn't running around to the back of the house to try and come at the thieves through the alley. 

Chaput slapped him. He repeated, half-impatient, "I'm going to kill you quick. Any last words?" 

When the insurgents had captured him at the barricade, Javert had felt a certain calmness come over him. He'd known they were going to kill him and hadn't been particularly bothered by the thought. It was not that he had  _wanted_  to die, but there'd been profound satisfaction in knowing that he would be killed having done his duty as best he could and that the National Guard would exterminate these rebels soon enough. 

That same calmness came over him once more. If not Comtois, then Moreau would fetch more men and capture Chaput and the surviving thieves. Coultier and Royer would have justice. As would he, he supposed. He studied Chaput's expectant face, and realized that the man truly did expect him to beg for his life. He pretended to think deeply for a moment, already knowing the response that would irritate the man the most. 

"No."  

Chaput's expression twisted into a disappointed scowl. He struck Javert again in the face, and then a third time, until Javert's lip split and blood filled his mouth. Chaput held up the knife; the blade glittered dangerously in the light. 

At the sight of the knife, Javert remembered Valjean kneeling before him, a knife in his hand, the smell of gunpowder upon his clothes. Most of all he remembered the queer gentleness of Valjean's touch as he kept him still and cut the ropes of the martingale.

The thought of Valjean shattered his calm. How would Valjean react tomorrow when Madame Bonnet gave him the news? Would he think Javert had bared his throat for the knife? Would he blame himself? Unbidden, he remembered Valjean's stricken expression as Javert had laughingly spoken of nearly drowning himself. He never wanted Valjean to look so again, especially not on his account. Desperation choked him, and he found himself praying hopelessly to Valjean's strange, merciful God. 

_Please, don't let me die. Let me live, if only for Valjean's sake. Please. Please._

The knife flashed in the light, and he threw himself backwards, flinging up his chained hands to protect his throat. Pain welled in a long thin line across his forearm, but he ignored it, scrambling backwards and kicking wildly at Chaput. His boot connected, and Chaput doubled over and dropped the knife. Javert dove for the blade even as one of the other thieves kicked him. Thank God that they'd been foolish enough to chain his hands in front of him rather than behind his back. 

He ignored the agony of his hip as the blow sent him rolling, his hands tight around the knife's handle. His shoulder struck a table leg and rattled his breath from him. He propped himself against the leg and raised the knife just as one of the other thieves lunged at him. The man's coat and vest proved little resistance against the blade; Javert felt it slide into the thief's stomach with sickening ease. 

The thief's expression was fixed in a snarl even as a pained groan shuddered out of him. He opened his mouth as though to say something, his furious eyes already beginning to cloud over, and then his body slumped and pinned Javert against the table.

Javert had only a second to gasp beneath the half-crushing weight before Chaput pressed a boot to the dead man's shoulder and shoved his corpse off Javert. A pistol was in Chaput's hand. His expression was pinched with frustration. He was silent, a terrible anger in his eyes. He pointed the gun at Javert's forehead. This close, it would be impossible for him to miss. 

There was nowhere to escape. Javert stared at the pistol, and then closed his eyes. Please, let Valjean understand somehow that he had fought, that he had not welcomed the bullet, that he hadn't wanted to die, not now. There was a strange pounding in his ears once more, half-deafening. The wild beating of his heart, he supposed, desperate to live. He didn't flinch at the pistol's retort, but braced himself for the impact. When it didn't come, he opened his good eye in confusion and saw Chaput clutch his stomach and fall backwards, his coat already soaked with blood before he struck the floor. 

Javert stared, uncomprehending. He flinched at the hand upon his shoulder, realizing too late that the touch was gentle. 

"It is all right, monsieur, we’re here to help," an unfamiliar voice said gently. A man knelt next to him. He had silver hair and an intelligent face that was touched with recent sorrow, his expression haggard but nevertheless filled with polite concern. "Sergeant Moreau asked for our assistance since there were no other police nearby. I keep an apartment across the street. Are you badly hurt?" 

"I," Javert said, or tried to. He turned his head a little to avoid spitting blood onto the gentleman's coat, but the quick movement dizzied him. He sank a little against the table leg, the ground seeming to shift beneath him.  Now that the danger seemed passed, the extent of his injuries caught up with him. He hurt everywhere: his hip, his shoulder, his head, his arm, his chest. He took in a shallow breath, but that only made his ribs ache more. Despite the pain, he couldn't quite believe that he was alive. He muttered, "One of my men, Royer…he is dead, I think, or badly hurt. Someone should--"

"Monsieur! God, your face, your  _arm_." Moreau's voice was too loud and anxious. The sergeant's hands shook as he grabbed Javert's arm, not quite touching the knife wound. The young man hastily bound the cut with his cravat. That finished, Moreau stared anxiously, his face white and strained. He turned and said a little helplessly, "He needs a doctor, monsieur." 

"Yes," said the gentleman, and called over his shoulder. "Get my carriage ready immediately, Pierre."

"At once, Monsieur de Courfeyrac." 

"I thank God you were at home, monsieur," Moreau continued. 

Grief tightened Monsieur de Courfeyrac's face. "You were lucky. I do not live in Paris. I am only here because-- I am here only for a few weeks for--" He stopped, looking suddenly old. "But that has nothing to do with you both. Excuse me." He rose to his feet, slowly, as though in pain. When Javert's gaze followed him, he saw that there were a number of men in the kitchen now, several grimacing in distaste at the bodies on the floor. 

The last thief had been pressed to the nearby wall by Comtois's fist upon his collar, his hands pinioned by handcuffs. As Javert watched, Comtois's grip tightened on the man's collar, the thief's face turning an ugly purple. Javert tried to draw in enough breath to speak and coughed instead. "Moreau, see that Comtois doesn’t kill that man. He needs to stand trial," he whispered. "And I shot one of the other thieves in the shoulder, he needs a surgeon...." 

Moreau's expression said clearly that he wouldn't mind if Comtois  _did_  strangle the criminal, but after a second he said, "Comtois! We're arresting him, not killing him." 

Javert's ribs hurt from even that small effort. He could barely breathe now, each small movement sending another pulse of pain through him. His vision dimmed alarmingly. He pressed his good hand to his side where the pain was the worst. At least one or two ribs were probably broken, maybe more.  "Moreau--" Another wave of pain racked him and he didn't finish his thought. 

A strong arm drew him carefully away from the table and laid him upon the floor. "Easy, monsieur," said de Courfeyrac. "Pierre will have the carriage ready in another moment." 

Javert tried to fix his good eye upon the gentleman, but his sight was still dim and gray. He could only murmur a weak, "Monsieur, my man Royer--" before his strength failed him once more. 

"I have men looking for your sergeant," de Courfeyrac assured him. "Now rest." 

Still feeling as though he had forgotten something, that there were still things that needed to be done, Javert nevertheless obeyed, closing his eye. His pain didn't fade, but everything else did, Moreau and de Courfeyrac's voices turning indistinct as they spoke next to him. He was almost unconscious when he remembered that someone must tell Valjean not to come to his apartment tomorrow. 

He tried to speak, squinting blindly into the gray of the room, but darkness replaced the gray. Even the pain slipped away from him. His thoughts faded, his worry about Valjean slipping out of reach.

As Moreau murmured something unintelligible, Javert closed his eyes and slept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for graphic depictions of violence and death for original characters, and serious injury for Javert, though Javert survives.


	6. Lay Your Burden Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion to the fic! Thank you so much for reading and for your patience. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Thanks goes out to my miseres friends who encouraged me to finish it.

“...love, lay your burden down, here, tell me how   
to make this body a safehouse and not   
a prison...”

-"Marrying the Violence" by Marty McConnell

 

* * *

 

Javert awoke in pain, bewildered. He couldn't think of what had happened, his memory out of reach. All he knew was that his entire body ached. His head hurt. Even breathing brought about a dull, throbbing discomfort in his side. He tried to open his eyes, but the pain in his left eye flared into stabbing agony. He groaned.   
  
"Monsieur Javert?" A soft voice cut through the haze.  
  
He had heard the girl speak only briefly, yet he still knew that clear voice. Bewildered, he recognized the concerned tone, a paler echo of her worry when she'd made Valjean promise to have some tea. But what was Valjean's daughter doing here? Wherever here was, he added to the silent question, his thoughts still muddled.    
  
"Monsieur Javert?"  
  
Javert opened his right eye carefully. The girl leaned over the bed. His vision wouldn't focus; her hair was a dark halo around the vague outline of her face, dazzling him. He resisted the urge to close his eye against it. When he tried to speak, he found that it hurt even to whisper. "Mademoiselle?"   
  
"Monsieur Javert!" The girl sounded relieved. "Do you know where you are, monsieur? What happened?"   
  
He attempted to think, but his memory, slow in returning to him, seemed full of holes. He couldn't remember how he'd come to be here, only knew that somehow his body had taken a beating. The strange haze that had settled over his thoughts cleared a little, edged out by alarm. Surely she would only be here if something had happened to Valjean. Anxiety tightened his chest. "No, mademoiselle, I...."   
  
"From what Madame Bonnet told Father, and Monsieur Chabouillet has told me, you were injured during an arrest last night. You're in the hospital."  
  
The words didn't make sense, and then they did. His memories were still in fragments, but that didn't matter, not when Javert knew enough to fear. He still had no memory of the arrest that had brought him here, but that didn't matter. What would he do, he wondered, if Valjean and Chabouillet met face to face? Of all his fellow officers, Chabouillet was the most likely to recognize Valjean. What would Javert do if Valjean was apprehended?

He struggled upright, ignoring the pain in his arm and ribs. The girl's face blurred further and became a smear of color, but he kept his gaze fixed in her direction. "Monsieur  _Chabouillet_  spoke to you?" he repeated hoarsely. "And your father, mademoiselle? Tell me that he isn't here."   
  
"Please, monsieur, you're hurt," the girl said quickly, alarmed. "Lay back down. Father isn't here. He's visiting Marius on my behalf, as I am visiting you on his." She paused, and then laughed a little, a quick, nervous giggle. "That is to say, I'm certain he wishes to be here. He has been very--"   
  
"He mustn't come here," Javert said. The thought of Chabouillet arresting Valjean and of Valjean in chains was worse pain than his ribs. Panic clawed at his chest and made it impossible to breathe. "Mademoiselle, swear that you will keep him away from here, swear--"  
  
"Monsieur Javert!"

Her startled, strained tone brought him back to himself. The rest of the haze lifted from his mind at last, and he could think clearly despite the constant pain. He realized that he had clutched her arm in the midst of his alarm. Even through her glove Javert could feel the delicate bones of her wrist and the bewildered tension in her stillness. He was gripping her too tightly. He released her and sank back against the pillow, embarrassed. "Forgive me, I--"   
  
The girl interrupted him, her words filled with gentle concern. Her mother's voice had never sounded so. But then, Javert thought, guilt like bile in his throat,  _she_  had only ever been afraid of him, desperate and frightened for her child, and then sweet-voiced with relief when she, confused and dazed by her illness, had thought that he had ordered her release rather than Madeleine.

"Please, monsieur," the girl said. "You aren't well. The doctors and Monsieur Chabouillet wouldn't tell me everything, only that you were hurt very badly and have been ill with fever from your injuries. You are clearly not yourself. If you'll rest, I swear that I will speak to Father and tell him of your wishes." A puzzled note entered her voice then. "Though I don't see why you wouldn't want him to visit...."   
  
Relief touched him briefly, but still the thought of the child encountering Chabouillet worried him. He didn't know the girl well, but he could imagine all too easily her innocently inviting Chabouillet to her apartment and unknowingly bringing her father's doom upon him. His throat tightened. "A hospital isn't fit for him, or for you, mademoiselle. Please, a hospital is no place for a young lady--"  
  
"Excuse me, monsieur, but that won't do at all! If Father cannot visit you, and  _I_  cannot visit you, how will we know when you are well? Must we go begging for scraps of news from your landlady?"  
  
"I," Javert said, and stopped. "Mademoiselle."   
  
Her hand rested very lightly upon his and then swiftly withdrew before he could protest the impropriety. "I will make my father promise, monsieur. You'll have to content yourself with that."

He had to persuade her not to visit, and yet he couldn't think of a decent reason for her to stay away. There had been laughter in her voice, but a ring of steel beneath the amusement as well; he half-imagined Valjean's stubborn look transposed upon the girl's young face. He wouldn't win this argument, not half-stupefied by his injuries. Still, he murmured, "Mademoiselle, surely your father would worry if you visited a hospital so often. These places contain people with all manner of sickness--"

"No, no, monsieur," the girl said. Her tone was resolute. "You are wasting your breath. Let us talk of something else. How are you feeling? Shall I fetch some water? Perhaps you wish to see your doctor?"

The rapid-fire questions made Javert's head pound. He thought about arguing further, but it seemed pointless. Perhaps later, when he could think clearly, he could argue more eloquently. He leaned back against the pillow and repressed a sigh. He knew that the girl wasn't Valjean's by blood, and yet she seemed to have inherited his exasperating stubbornness somehow. "I'm somewhat thirsty, mademoiselle," he admitted.

A memory stirred of one of the thieves, the cruel amusement in his voice as he spoke of Royer, the troubling stains on his shirt-sleeve, how he had laughed. Javert's stomach soured. "Is Monsieur Chabouillet here? I need to speak with him--" He coughed. It rattled his frame, his injured ribs flaring from a dull ache into agony.

He gasped for air, aware that the girl was speaking. Despite the roaring in his ears, he made out some of her anxious words, something about going to fetch help. Her hand fluttered against his shoulder and then was gone. He pressed a hand to the worst of the pain; the pressure seemed to ease some of the sharp agony, enough that he could breathe a little.

He sank back against the pillow, exhausted by the pain. He tried not to think of how he must have looked, what the girl would report back to Valjean. He was too weary to do more than twitch in surprise as a new hand settled upon his shoulder and squeezed. It was a man's hand, and for a second Javert's heart twisted in his chest and he thought, terrified, _Valjean._ But Valjean was visiting the boy, wasn't he? It couldn't be him. 

Javert forced his good eye open, but couldn't make out the man's face hovering before him. "Monsieur?" he whispered, trying not to set off another bout of coughing.  

"Javert."

Relief filled him. He knew this voice too, recognizing the mildly exasperated way that Chabouillet said his name. He imagined Chabouillet's expression, that half-concerned, half-frustrated look. With the side of his face that didn't feel swollen, he attempted a smile. "Monsieur Chabouillet."

Chabouillet was silent for a moment. "Well," he said at last, almost roughly. "It seems that the thieves did not beat you permanently senseless. That's something, I suppose." Despite the harshness of his words, Javert could hear the relief in Chabouillet's voice, and his hand was gentle upon Javert's arm. "How much do you remember?"

"Only a little," Javert admitted, still whispering. "My memory is in pieces.... The arrest went wrong, somehow." He remembered again the glint of the knife. "Is Royer...?" Chabouillet's long silence was answer enough. His throat tightened. " _Damn_. Monsieur, I-- you must need--"

Chabouillet squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "Don't think on it, Javert. You must focus on getting yourself well. Your report can wait."

Javert wanted to argue, for surely he owed Royer's widow an explanation, but weariness dragged at him. Even the thought of penning a few words of sympathy seemed beyond endurance. He shook his head, very carefully. "But Madame Royer--"

"Is being taken care of, I assure you," Chabouillet said. "Some kindhearted gentleman, apparently moved by the tragedy, sent her money for the funeral and paid her landlady six month's rent. She'll have found a job by then, god willing. She and the children won't starve."

Something like amusement touched Javert then, a strange mix of affection and exasperation and gratitude welling in his chest. He swallowed down a laugh. He had no doubt who this 'kindhearted gentleman' was. "I suppose this gentleman didn't give his name."

"No. The letter that accompanied the money was unsigned."

"Of course," Javert said, and laughed. He regretted it a second later, his ribs aching. He fumbled with his good arm, pressing his hand once again to where the pain was worst. He grimaced. It was not the agony of earlier, but still it hurt to breathe. "I think I'll try to rest, monsieur."

"Good." Chabouillet squeezed his shoulder one last time, and then released him. His voice was quiet. "I'll keep Moreau and Comtois away for a few more days."

Javert repressed another laugh, imagining how the sergeants would pile into his room and exclaim over his injuries. He would get no rest then. "Thank you, monsieur." Weariness dragged him without resistance towards what he hoped would be a dreamless, painless sleep. He closed his eyes and slept.

 

* * *

 

Nausea woke him this time. 

Bile rose in Javert's throat, its sourness wresting him from sleep. He rolled over, ignoring the pain in his ribs and the throbbing of his arm as he groped for the edge of the bed. He forced his good eye open, and for a second feared the dimness. Had his head injury done him permanent damage? Javert had heard of such things, men receiving a blow to their heads and then losing their sight slowly over the ensuing weeks. Then he blinked and realized that it was night, the room lit only by a single, sputtering candle.   
  
His stomach twisted unpleasantly, an unkind reminder of why he'd awakened. He started to drag himself closer to the side of the bed, hoping that the doctor had had the foresight to leave him a chamber-pot in case of illness. Then, as though by magic, there was a bowl in front of his lips and a cool, steadying hand upon the back of his neck. Javert didn't question the doctor's good timing. He gave in to his body's demands and retched, gagging against the burn in his throat and the pain in his side.

At last his stomach was empty and the nausea diminished to something manageable. Javert started to lift his head, but a wave of dizziness swept over him. He clutched tighter at the sheets, closing his eye and trying to ignore the way the bed lurched beneath him. 

Something was pressed lightly to his mouth. When Javert's lips parted a little in confusion, he tasted tepid water. He drank with care, just enough that his throat felt less sore. Then he pulled away, the man's hand dropping from the back of his neck. "Thank you, monsieur," Javert said, voice hoarse, and opened his eye in time to turn his head and catch Valjean's flustered smile. 

Astonishment and alarm jerked him upright. He grabbed at Valjean's sleeve and felt the rough workman's fabric beneath his disbelieving fingers. Yes, it was Valjean, his familiar grave features illuminated by that single candle; Valjean, who should be asleep at his Rue de l'Homme Arme apartment and far from here. "What the devil--" Javert's ribs protested the sudden movement and he caught his breath in a harsh gasp. Concern passed over Valjean's face, but before he could speak, Javert held up his free hand. When he could breathe again, he growled, "Valjean, tell me that you did not  _break into the hospital_."   
  
Concern still filled Valjean's expression, but it was touched with sheepishness as well. He looked away from Javert, seeming to weigh his words. "Very well," he said at last, and smiled lopsidedly, as though tentatively inviting Javert in on a jest. "We'll talk of something else."  
  
"Valjean." The name escaped him as a frustrated groan. Valjean's smile wavered, as though he didn't know whether to look amused or apologetic at Javert's exasperation. When he made to shift and sit back in his chair, Javert tightened his grip on Valjean's sleeve, keeping him where the candle shone clearest upon his features. "It's  _my_  head that took the beating, and yet it's  _your_  wits that seem addled! Why are you here? I told your daughter to keep you away."   
  
Valjean's expression changed at the mention of Javert's injuries, his mild amusement vanishing as though it'd never existed. His gaze traveled slowly over Javert, who realized uncomfortably how he must appear. He had no mirror at hand, but one side of his face felt swollen and stiff, and he couldn't open that eye no matter how he tried. He had little doubt that his injuries looked as terrible as they felt. Possibly worse, he thought with an inward grimace, remembering the last time a thief had blackened his eye and the shocking color of it. Before he could try to wave off Valjean's concern or make some vague assurance, Valjean spoke.   
  
"So Cosette said. But I--" Valjean hesitated. There was a crease between his eyes now. His intent look felt like a touch to Javert's face, keeping him silent. His gaze lingered upon Javert's features and upon his arm, studying where bandages swathed the cut Chaput's knife had made. Something that looked like pain deepened the lines on his face. He said, so quietly that Javert had to strain to hear, "I needed to see you for myself."

Javert had expected Valjean to dissemble as he had before. He didn't know how to answer this soft-voiced honesty, or how to respond to the obvious concern in Valjean's expression. His face warmed. It was only the dull, persistent ache of his cracked ribs and bruised head that kept him from clearing his throat. He realized that he still held Valjean's sleeve. He let go, flustered further, and looked down, half-studying his bandaged arm as he thought.

What could he say? Valjean had witnessed him being violently ill minutes earlier; he surely wouldn't believe any assertion that the injuries weren't as bad as they appeared. Besides, any claim to such would skirt too closely to a lie, for his entire body ached. Dizzied even by resting against the pillows, he found his memory still in pieces. It was a struggle to remember his conversations with Valjean's daughter and Monsieur Chabouillet, and still harder to remember his fight with the gang.

A fragment of his desperate thoughts as he'd knelt before Chaput's knife struggled to the forefront of his mind: _Let me live, if only for Valjean's sake._ He lived, but still Valjean looked pained, as though each bruise was his own. Javert resisted the urge to press a hand to where his head hurt worst, for that would only make Valjean frown more. He tried to think despite the pain. "Don't look so," he muttered at last, settling on as much of the truth as he could bear to say. "I won't claim that my injuries are minor, but I will heal, unlike-- well." His stomach soured, not with nausea this time, but unsettled by the memory of the men he had killed, and of Royer and his grieving family.

He recalled Valjean's kindness then. "Thank you, for what you did for Royer's widow." There was silence. Javert looked up at Valjean's flustered expression. Amusement briefly touched him, something like fondness catching in his throat. "Did you think I wouldn't guess? An anonymous gentleman paying for the funeral and Madame Royer's rent! Such generosity has your mark all over it."

Valjean flushed. "It seemed the least I could do."

"Most would say that the least you could do is nothing," Javert said dryly, "but still, thank you." The candle flickered; the sputtering light hurt his head. He closed his eye for a moment and added, "I understand your concern, but, Valjean, you _cannot_ visit. What if someone found you here? How would we explain it? I told your daughter to keep you away."

"So she said," Valjean said.

He might have meant to say more, but Javert kept talking, desperate to make Valjean see sense. "It was bad enough during the day when you might have met Monsieur Chabouillet, the only other officer likely to recognize you, but--"

"Javert," Valjean said gently, and Javert flinched.

He grimaced, or at least tried to; the swollen side of his face proved no more cooperative than before. He thought of Valjean being caught entering or leaving the hospital and being arrested. Again he considered Chabouillet recognizing Valjean. The same alarm that had made him grip the girl's wrist too tightly rose in him once more. His hands clenched into fists; the knife cut throbbed. Harshly, he demanded, "God, what will it take to convince you to stay away?"

Valjean said nothing for a moment, but this time Javert didn't open his eye to try and decipher the look upon his face. "I won't visit, if that's truly what you wish," he said slowly. "But will you at least let Cosette return?"

Javert almost snorted. "As though I have any choice in the matter when it comes to your daughter." He forced his eye open in time to catch a fond smile flit across Valjean's face before his expression resettled back into solemnity. Unbidden, Javert remembered the fleeting, blindingly bright smile Valjean had worn before. It suited his face better than his customary grave lines, came the traitorous thought.

He groped for the right words, but everything he said came out clumsy and halting. "It isn't that I don't-- that is, I am glad for your company, I want-- ah, but you must know that by now! All I can think is how dangerous it is for you to be here. To see you again in chains--" He laughed without humor. "How have you withstood it all these years, enduring the thought that someone might recognize you?"

If he hadn't been watching so closely, he would have missed the look that crossed Valjean's face then.

Valjean had disavowed sainthood, but still, in that instant, his expression seemed better suited to the carved saints that looked down with weary, patient suffering upon the people of Paris. The years were stark upon Valjean's face. He looked suddenly, terribly old. And then the look was gone as though it had never been, replaced by one of those damnably vague smiles of his. Valjean straightened in his chair, one hand tapping out a slow beat against his knee. He spoke quietly, his gaze focused upon Javert. "Then you _will_ let Cosette visit?"

Javert opened his mouth to repeat his question and demand an answer. But perhaps Valjean's exhaustion was contagious, for Javert felt only tired at the thought of a potential argument. Instead he said, "Yes, Valjean. If you promise to keep away from the hospital and Monsieur Chabouillet, your daughter may visit me."

The corners of Valjean's eyes crinkled. "Thank you."

Javert waved off the words, flustered by the pleased undertone in Valjean's voice. "Now, will you please go before someone--" He stopped as Valjean tensed. "What is it?" he demanded, and then heard it: the sound of approaching footsteps. Panic seized him. He imagined the doctor's bewilderment, the misunderstanding that might follow, the possible call for an officer despite Javert's objections. He peered around the room, but there was nowhere for Valjean to hide.

The footsteps seemed to grow louder the closer they came; they drowned out Javert's pounding heart. He imagined Valjean in prison again, and the pain was worse than his ribs and his head combined. He held his breath, foolishly, as though the slight sounds might betray Valjean to whoever walked down the hallway.

The footfalls proceeded to his door, and then onward, moving without hesitation further down the corridor. For a second Javert could not believe their good luck. Then he let out his breath in one explosive rush. "Now will you please go?" he muttered. Relief softened his words.

A breath escaped Valjean as well. He said, words warm against Javert's brow, "You will have to release me first." There was a strange note in his voice, one Javert didn't recognize.

Puzzled, Javert opened his good eye, only then realizing he had closed it. Then he flushed hot. In the midst of his alarm, he had clutched at Valjean, one hand tight upon his elbow and the other arm flung across Valjean's broad shoulders, as though that would have somehow concealed him from view had someone entered the room. His arm rose and fell with Valjean's breath. Their faces were very close together, for Javert had half-dragged Valjean towards the bed.

Embarrassment pricked at him, worsened by Valjean's incredulous look and the flush creeping into Valjean's face. "Sorry," Javert muttered, releasing Valjean and sinking back against his pillow. His face still felt warm. He knew that even the flickering candlelight couldn't conceal his blush. He repressed the ridiculous urge to cover his face with his hand or to wave Valjean away. "I--" But what could he say that didn't sound foolish? He grimaced in irritation, and then grimaced in pain, for the movement made his split lip sting. "Well! You should go and rest."

He flinched in surprise when Valjean touched his cheek. Valjean's fingers were careful as they examined the damage done to Javert's face, skirting the edges of the worst bruises. Javert couldn't make sense of it. Did Valjean need reassurance that he wasn't injured beyond repair? But Javert had told him so earlier. There was no need for this queer study of his injuries. Valjean put his hand lightly to Javert's jaw then, his thumb brushing where Javert knew his pulse beat too quickly, and Javert repressed a shiver.

Javert had never been touched so before. Valjean's touch was so gentle that it hurt, a strange new ache growing in his chest. Each press of those callused fingers against his skin deepened the discomfort until it was impossible to breathe. He clutched at his blanket, dizzy and bewildered. He wished that Valjean would stop. No, he wished that Valjean would never stop. His lips parted without conscious thought, a sigh escaping him.   

Valjean's hand stilled. His fingers shook, a minute tremor that Javert nevertheless felt as acutely as a blow, and then lifted away. When Javert looked at him, Valjean's expression was almost comical; he stared at his hand with an astonished air as though he didn't recognize it. He curled and uncurled his fingers slowly before he dropped his hand to his side. Valjean swallowed, his ears turning pink, and rose. He nearly knocked over the nearby water jug in his haste. He fumbled with it before he set it closer to the bed, within easy reach.

"You should-- you should rest as well," he said. He didn't look directly at Javert. He passed his hand over his face, avoiding Javert's gaze. Even the back of his neck was flushed. "Good night, Javert."

Still strangely dizzy, Javert found his voice too late. "Valjean--"

But Valjean was already at the door. The last Javert saw of him was his boot, the leather catching the light. The door closed with a quiet, firm click behind him, and Javert was alone.

He ran wondering fingers along his jaw. Valjean had touched him gently, there could be no bruises left behind, and yet Valjean's touch seemed to linger upon his skin. A hoarse laugh escaped him. He dropped his hand to his lap and curled it into a fist that strained at the stitches in his arm. He ignored the discomfort, lost in thought. Would Valjean ever cease in confusing him, or would Javert spend the rest of his days like this, constantly bewildered by the other man? Well, at least Valjean was headed back to his apartment, away from the nurses or doctors who might call for the police.

Again the thought of Valjean arrested came to him unbidden, like a blow. He realized that Valjean hadn't answered how he had survived all these years despite the fear of the law worrying at his heels. Though perhaps that worn, weary look had been answer enough. He remembered then, like another blow, Valjean's bowed shoulders and lowered gaze, the strain in his voice as he said, _I was tired of hiding, of constantly looking over my shoulder, of answering to the name Fauchelevent and never my own. For the past eight years, I had-- have endured it for Cosette._

Pain caught at his chest again, a strange tenderness that was both like and unlike the ache of his abused ribs. He pressed his hand to this new pain and grimaced. God! He was half-mad with worry after only a few days of concerning himself for Valjean's safety and freedom. Meanwhile Valjean had spent years looking over his shoulder and fearing every policeman who walked past. Valjean had said that he'd endured it, but he didn't deserve to undergo such a trial. No, not Valjean, who'd rescued an old enemy from death, who was the embodiment of goodness, who strove to lessen everyone's sufferings except perhaps his own.

"I must do _something_ ," Javert whispered. He laughed again, hollowly. What could he do? He was only an ill, old inspector, he couldn't wave a hand and absolve Valjean of his old crimes--

He straightened, ignoring the spike of pain in his ribs. A pardon! It wouldn't be easy, but he latched onto the idea with desperation. Javert knew very little of pardons. He had turned a blind eye to them before, for the idea that no man once fallen into crime could be redeemed had warred with his conviction that the king wouldn't pardon someone who didn't deserve it. The conflict had made him uneasy, and so he hadn't let himself think much of them. He grimaced, remembering. Perhaps many of those pardoned men and women had deserved a second chance. Perhaps they all had.

How blind he had been! How foolish! He didn't know how to obtain a pardon, but surely of all men, Valjean deserved one. He closed his eyes, a terrible hope rising in him. Chabouillet would know how to get a man pardoned. Javert would have to be very careful, for he couldn't reveal Valjean's identity to Chabouillet until he knew the pardon was a certainty, but--

The candle sputtered and at last went out.

"Please," Javert whispered into the dark, not quite a prayer but just as desperate as when he'd begged God to let him live. "Please, let me do this for him."

 

* * *

 

"You have visitors, monsieur," said the doctor the next morning. 

Javert wondered at the amused twitch of the man's lips. Even as the doctor had examined him earlier and seemed satisfied that the blows to the head hadn't done any permanent damage, he had been solemn-faced. This strange hint of humor was promptly explained by Lazare and Bernard tumbling past the doctor like overeager pups. Before the boys could venture further into the room, the doctor caught hold of them. He said, "Monsieur Javert is still recovering from his injuries. You are not to excite him, understand?"

"Yes, monsieur!"

Javert winced as the boys’ clear, high voices rang too loudly in his ears. He was less consumed by pain today, his arm hurting only when he moved it and his ribs protesting only at deeper breaths, but his head still ached where he had been struck, his eye still swollen completely shut, and loud noises and bright lights continued to pain him.

The doctor, spotting Javert's grimace, added firmly, "Which means speaking _softly_."

"Yes, monsieur," came the subdued answers.

As soon as the doctor was gone, Bernard approached the bed, staring at Javert with wide-eyed interest. "You look _awful_ , monsieur." His whisper was filled with a ghoulish relish.

"Well, no one will fetch me a mirror, so I’ll trust your judgment," Javert said dryly, as he might have answered one of Comtois's more inane remarks. Since the night Madame Bonnet had welcomed the boys into her house, Javert had conceded that he knew nothing of children, especially not how to actually _converse_ with them. He had settled upon treating the boys as he would one of the sergeants-- that is to say, as someone prone to foolishness but ultimately goodhearted.

This manner seemed to suit the boys well enough, for Bernard only grinned.

Then Javert frowned. "Shouldn't you be at school?" Valjean had secured both of the boys a place at one of the schools he assisted, and the boys had agreed to begin attending classes once the Montmartre case was over.

Lazare, looking unenthusiastic at the prospect of learning his letters, shrugged. “Monsieur Duval has classes in the morning and afternoon. We’re working this morning, and going to the afternoon class.” He fished out a well-worn watch and looked at it with satisfaction. “Monsieur Fauchelevent is letting us use this today so we won’t be late.”

Javert repressed a snort. The watch looked like something one would find from a pawn-shop. Surely even Valjean, despite his apparent attachment to his workman's clothes, would have a better piece. He suspected that Valjean had purchased it for the boys and, knowing Lazare’s pride, had made some pretense of letting them borrow it.

“Monsieur Chabouillet said he’d come around eleven o’clock,” Bernard added, still peering in fascination at Javert’s black eye. He had his hands on the edge of the bed, straining his small body to get a better look at Javert’s injuries. “Did you really kill all those thieves, monsieur? Monsieur Moreau said—”

Javert’s expression must have changed, for Lazare grabbed Bernard’s shoulder and drew him away from the bed. He frowned at his brother and said in a whisper that carried to Javert’s ears, “Doctor said no excitement. Talking about the thieves will get him upset, Bernard.”

Bernard looked apologetic. “Sorry, monsieur!”

Javert waved off the apology with his uninjured arm. He focused on the first part of Bernard’s remarks. He felt an unaccustomed nervousness at the thought of seeing his superior. He remembered Chabouillet’s voice, rough with relief, and the firm press of his hand upon Javert’s shoulder. He had known Chabouillet for decades and yet he wondered how well he really knew him. Would he listen to Javert and agree to help, or would he feel betrayed that Javert had aided a fugitive? 

He wet his lips. “Monsieur Chabouillet will be here around eleven, you said? Did he say anything else? Perhaps he is expecting a report--”

“He didn’t say nothing about that, monsieur,” Lazare said. “Just when he’d come.”

Javert, still thinking of Chabouillet, absently reached for a nonexistent pocket. Then he made a face. When he'd asked a doctor about his belongings, he'd been told that Moreau had taken what could be salvaged back to Javert’s apartment, which included his purse. “Remind me when I am back at Madame Bonnet’s that I owe you payment for the message.”

“Monsieur Chabouillet already paid us,” Bernard said. He had drifted closer to the bed again, staring at Javert’s bandaged arm. His eyes were wide. “Did getting stabbed hurt, monsieur? What did it feel like? I bet it--”

Lazare seized hold of his brother once again and propelled him towards the door. “Enough stupid questions. Course getting stabbed hurts! And we’ve got other messages to deliver, remember? Stop bothering the inspector.” Almost at the door, he paused and turned. “Oh! Did you have any messages, monsieur?”

“No,” Javert said, and then reconsidered. Again nervousness and anxiety touched him. He thought of Chabouillet's potential aid, of Valjean being pardoned and safe. An unbearable hope tightened his chest. He wet his lips again. “But I may have some for you tomorrow.”

Lazare nodded as Bernard grinned and said, with baffling sincerity, “Hope you feel better soon, monsieur!”

As the door closed behind them, Javert sank back against his pillow. It was frustrating how much even that short conversation had wearied him. The doctor had said he would tire easily while his body recovered from the shock of the thieves’ abuses, but this was ridiculous. Exhaustion weighed upon him so quickly and heavily, it was all he could do to keep his good eye open. How would he ever manage the conversation with Chabouillet?

He spent the rest of the morning alternating between napping and fretting over how he would ask for Chabouillet’s help. A familiar knock roused him from a half-doze, and Chabouillet called his name softly. Javert attempted to answer, and found his throat was too dry for speech. He fumbled for the water jug someone had left while he’d slept. He sipped hastily. Then he called for Chabouillet to enter, straightening and trying to look as though he hadn't been caught dozing.

“Good morning, Javert,” Chabouillet said. He hovered in the doorway for a moment, studying Javert with narrowed eyes as Javert muttered a polite hello. His round face was lined with strain and bore the marks of sleepless nights. Javert felt a pang of guilt—here he was sleeping away the morning while Chabouillet dealt with the aftermath of his failure! He could well imagine the amount of paperwork and the number of questions from Monsieur Gisquet that Chabouillet must have endured these past few days. 

Chabouillet approached the bed and sank into the nearby chair with a quiet sigh. He took off his hat and rubbed at his jaw, frowning. He studied Javert for another moment. More guilt soured Javert’s stomach. Before he could make his apologies, however, Chabouillet spoke. “The doctor says you’re much improved, but we’ll put off your report another day. One of the surviving thieves has told us everything. Hoping to escape the guillotine with his honesty, I suspect.” A snort showed what Chabouillet thought of the thief’s chances. Then his intent look returned. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Javert said. At Chabouillet’s raised eyebrow he muttered, “Well, I still have headaches, but they’re bearable, monsieur.” His mouth had gone dry again. He resisted the urge to reach for the jug. “I actually need to speak to you about, well, another matter. As the secretary to Monsieur le Prefect, you must have some experience with, ah, with pardons….” The last word stuck in his throat and came out hoarse.

Chabouillet stared at him as though he'd gone mad. “You want a _pardon_ for that thief?” he asked, incredulous.

For a second Javert’s breath caught. Then that he realized that Chabouillet meant Chaput’s man, the one who had turned informer. He shook his head, ignoring a wave of dizziness at the gesture. “No, not him, monsieur! No, he’ll die for Royer. I--” His throat tightened. He dropped his gaze to the blanket. All of his carefully thought-out phrases had fallen out of his head. He muttered, “I haven't been entirely honest with you. My friend who discovered how the Montmartre gang was breaking into houses unseen, he—” He was doing this all wrong, he thought, despairing, and stopped.

“Your friend,” Chabouillet said quietly. “I take it he knows someone who needs a pardon?”

When Javert forced himself to look up, Chabouillet wore an unreadable expression. He couldn’t even begin to guess at Chabouillet’s thoughts. He swallowed and gave in to the impulse to drink from the jug again. It didn't help, his chest still tight with anxiety. He cleared his throat. “No, monsieur. He deserves one.”

Astonishment twisted Chabouillet’s expression, but he said nothing, just stared.

Javert’s face warmed. God, he wished that he could get up and pace! He'd always thought better on his feet. “I know it must seem mad,” he said into the silence. “I know what I have said about pardons in the past. Perhaps you wonder if the blows to my head have-- but, monsieur. You must believe me when I say that this man deserves a pardon more than anyone I have ever known.”

Chabouillet spoke slowly, still looking strangely at him. “If this man can change your mind about pardons, Javert, he sounds—” He paused, as though choosing his next few words with care. “—interesting. He has not committed any outrageous crime, I take it?”

“No. He broke parole and—” Javert hesitated. He flushed again and shook his head. He clutched at the bedspread, ignoring the pain of the knife-wound and how the fabric bunched beneath his anxious hands. “Forgive me, monsieur, but…until I am certain of a pardon, I dare not tell you everything. That way you won't have to compromise yourself if it turns out that my friend can’t be pardoned.”

Chabouillet’s eyebrows rose. His gaze studied Javert's face, intent and searching. He opened his mouth and then hesitated. Frowning, he settled back in his chair. “Javert," he said. "What would you do if I couldn't grant this friend a pardon? If I ordered you to bring him to the station?”

Again the thought of Valjean arrested hurt, like an old wound reopened. The pain bloomed in Javert's chest. He thought of the exhaustion in Valjean's face, the way he had looked as he'd said that he would have come willingly with Javert to the station. He'd thought Valjean an apparition then, something conjured by his fevered brain. Now his head ached, dully, but he knew that Chabouillet was just as real as Valjean had been that day.

Javert didn't blink. Instead he fixed his good eye upon Chabouillet. "I would refuse, monsieur. It would be an injustice to arrest him."

"An _injustice_!" The words were almost a shout, and this time Javert winced. Still he didn't look away from Chabouillet, whose expression was one of astonishment. The man's eyes were wide behind his spectacles, his mouth half-open. After a second, Chabouillet shook his head. His mouth twisted. "An injustice," he repeated, softer, and Javert couldn't guess at his tone. "Javert--"

"You do not know him, monsieur," Javert said. He grimaced, for surely interrupting Chabouillet would do him no favors. He passed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers brushed the bruises. He tried to remember all the convincing phrases he had thought up over the past few hours, but he couldn't. The only thought that filled his mind was what might happen if he failed. He laughed humorlessly. "He defies description. He would scold me if I said to you that he is a saint, and yet to say that he is a good man doesn't do him justice. He is the best man I have known, and if he deserves prison, then we all do. Please."

When Javert dared to look at Chabouillet again, he didn't know what to make of his expression. His eyes were unreadable behind his spectacles, his expression reserved. Javert opened his mouth to continue, and then closed it. He'd run out of words, save one. Licking his lips, he repeated, "Please."

Chabouillet looked down, his hands resting quietly on his knees. "It isn't easy to obtain a pardon," he said after a long moment, and Javert's heart twisted painfully in his chest. Then Chabouillet looked up and smiled. It was faint and had an air of bewilderment to it, but still it was a smile. He shook his head. "But this man-- the way you talk about him.... Well! I can't promise that we can get your friend this pardon, but I'll help you however I can."

That terrible hope of before rose in Javert again, so sudden and strong that he found himself breathless. For a moment he even thought that his body might betray him further, the prickling of his eyes threatening tears. He blinked once, twice, until the feeling passed. It took another second to trust his voice. "Thank you, monsieur. I am indebted to you."

"Yes, well," Chabouillet said, looking a little uncomfortable at Javert's gratitude. "You should thank me once we've succeeded." Then he leaned forward, a familiar glint in his eyes. "Now, I know you don't want to give me too many details, but I do have a few questions...." 

Javert answered what questions he could, though he stumbled through several of them. He hadn't considered that Chabouillet would need details-- what type of charity he performed, who would be willing to speak on his behalf besides Javert. He knew so little of Valjean and what had become of him in the years between taking the woman's child from the inn in Montfreuil and saving Javert's life at the barricade. He didn't even know if Valjean and the girl had lived all these years at their apartment on the rue de l'Homme Arme! 

Frustration made his head pound. He resisted the urge to press a hand to his brow. "I'm sorry, monsieur," he said through gritted teeth after he failed to answer yet another question. "I will have to speak to him." Though how he would get such details from Valjean remained to be seen, he thought dourly. He dared not tell Valjean of his plan in case it failed, but coaxing such information from Valjean seemed a tricky task. 

"That's fine, Javert," Chabouillet said. "Just get me the information when you can and I will see what I can do."

The door opened and Javert squinted towards the entrance. His vision proved too blurry to make out the person's features, his sight worsening once it reached past Chabouillet's shoulder. His chest tightened. He hadn't thought to ask Valjean when the girl planned to visit him. Had he warned Valjean that she seemed to be on speaking terms with Chabouillet? He couldn't remember. 

"Good afternoon, messieurs," came the firm command. Javert, relieved, recognized his doctor's voice. Though he wondered at the man's tone, which had a slightly exasperated edge to it. "Monsieur, I believe the inspector has had enough company today. If you could return tomorrow...." It was a command, Javert realized with growing astonishment. A polite one, but a command nonetheless, to the secretary of the Prefect of Police! But perhaps his doctor didn't realize to whom he spoke, and believed Chabouillet to be some common officer taking Javert's statement. 

Before Javert could speak, Chabouillet looked at him with narrowed eyes. A grimace pulled at his lips. "Ah. Yes," he said. He rose to his feet, taking up his hat from the table. "I didn't realize. I'll come again tomorrow for the report." Before Javert could protest, Chabouillet patted his shoulder and said in a brisk tone, "Get some rest, Javert!"

The doctor pursed his lips once Chabouillet had gone, studying Javert with a sharp, assessing gaze. Whatever he saw apparently displeased him, for his frown deepened and he shook his head. "Monsieur, you do yourself no favors. The more you rest, the sooner you'll recover. I've half a mind to forbid you visitors for a few days. The police can surely continue without your assistance for a day or two."  

"Monsieur!" Now Javert really did protest. He imagined Valjean's reaction to the girl being turned away, and winced. Would Valjean try to break into the hospital once more? He looked at the doctor and attempted an earnest look. He wasn't certain he succeeded, for he still didn't have much command over the swollen, bruised portion of his face. "Monsieur," he said, aiming for a conciliatory tone. "Please let me have visitors. I swear that I'll be more careful in the future."

The doctor stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed. "Very well."

"And might I have some paper and a pen?" At the doctor's look, Javert hastily added, "After I've rested, of course."

"Of course," the doctor said dryly. He studied Javert again. Apparently coming to a decision, he nodded. "I'll send a nurse with some writing materials later this afternoon. Now get some rest, monsieur."  

Javert didn't go to sleep immediately, though his body would have thanked him for it. He ignored the pounding in his head and the way his stitches ached. He hadn't realized how tense he'd been until Chabouillet was gone. Now he half-collapsed against his pillow, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. That had gone better than he'd hoped.

Yet how the devil was he going to get the necessary information from Valjean? It had never occurred to him to ask about Valjean's life, other than to scoff at Valjean's adoption of that woman's child and at his charity towards churches and schools. Surely Valjean would find it strange if Javert now expressed an interest. But then again, perhaps he wouldn't. Perhaps he would think it some awkward attempt on Javert's part to be friends.

"Friends," he murmured, laughing soundlessly, and grew warm remembering the touch of Valjean's hand upon his cheek.

He pressed his face against the pillow and closed his eyes tighter, but the memory wouldn't leave him. When he did sleep, his dreams were strange and restless. He was almost glad to wake and find that the doctor had held to his promise, and that someone had left pen and paper upon the table.

 

* * *

 

_Doubtless your daughter has told you how I am faring and what particular colors my bruises have turned this morning. I assure you that they look much worse than they feel. Still, they do cause the occasional headache. The doctor says that I am not allowed to read any of the books Bernard and Lazare brought from my apartment._

_I would twiddle my thumbs, except that I suspect the doctor would forbid that as well, claiming I might strain my stitches. Even M. Chabouillet refuses to let me discuss work, now that I have given him my report of the Montmartre case._

_Please save me from boredom. The doctor says I may write and receive letters so long as they are brief. I doubt that your daughter will mind being our messenger until I am well enough to return to my apartment. Tell me a little of yourself, if it pleases you. I realize that I know little of what you have done these past few years. Since coming to Paris, have you always lived on the rue de l'Homme Arme? Had you any occupation besides father and philanthropist?_

_If you don't wish to speak of such things, only say so and I shall think of something else to discuss._

_-Javert_

 

* * *

 

_I am happy to answer your questions, only I suspect that you will be disappointed. My life since coming to Paris has been fairly uneventful._

_For the first five years, Cosette and I lived at the Petit-Picpus convent. The nuns educated her while I worked as a gardener with my late brother. You might remember him from before we came to Paris. After my brother died, Cosette and I left the convent and moved between a few apartments. We spent some time on the rue Plumet. We have only lived at the rue de l'Homme Arme No. 7 for a short time. Since retiring as a gardener, I have, as you so aptly put it, been only a philanthropist and father, but I admit I am very satisfied with such work. And of course, as you know, I am a volunteer for the National Guard._

_That was kind of Bernard and Lazare to bring you books. Monsieur Duval tells me that they both show promise, though he adds that Bernard is more enthusiastic about learning his letters. Do you think it would help if I gave Lazare a book he might enjoy? I have a few books from when I taught Cosette how to read, though he might think himself too old for fairy tales._

_-Fauchelevent_

 

* * *

 

 _Yes, I remember your brother very well. To think you spent all that time with him at the convent! Well, I am certain that the nuns of Petit-Picpus were sorry to lose you as their gardener._ _Y_ _ou have always had a way with plants._

_Have you visited the Luxembourg Gardens? Admittedly I have only frequented the place a handful of times and always for work, but it seems like something you might enjoy. And I have heard that the Jardin des Planetes is quite something as well. Though I suspect that you have probably been to both places often and are laughing at me as you read this._

_I don't know why you are asking me advice about Bernard. If you think I know anything about children, you do me too much credit. You would do better to ask Madame Bonnet, for she has all but adopted the boys. She might know more of Lazare's interests, if he has any besides caring for his brother and eating three servings at every meal._

__Javert_

 

* * *

 

Javert stood before Valjean's apartment and willed himself to knock.

He couldn't have said how long he had been standing there, dithering like a fool. It might have been mere minutes or hours since the landlady had escorted him to the door and then retreated down the stairs with a curious look. 

If only his hands wouldn't shake! If they would stop, then he could knock. He swore under his breath. There was no reason to be nervous, he told himself, for what was at least the fifth or sixth time since he had nearly cut himself shaving that morning. It proved to have just as little effect as the last few attempts. 

Perhaps Valjean would be angry that Javert had pursued a pardon without asking him first, but surely the joy of knowing himself safe at last would outweigh that transgression. No, there was no reason to be nervous, but still Javert's hand trembled as he touched the folded paper in his pocket. Strange, that so small a thing could be so important, he thought. Strange, that a piece of paper could decide a man's future.

He squared his shoulders, bracing himself for Valjean's possible rebuke, and knocked firmly.   

A few seconds later, Valjean opened the door. He was in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his head bare-- but of course he would be, Javert thought after his initial surprise. Why wouldn't Valjean relax so in his own rooms? Still, Javert found his gaze drawn to Valjean's broad shoulders, distracted by the power dormant in Valjean's arms as his hand rested lightly on the doorknob.

Valjean said cheerfully, "You have good timing. I'm almost finished making tea." 

Javert blinked and raised his gaze to Valjean's face, seeing the small smile there. For a second he feared that Valjean had caught him staring, but there was no blush upon the other man's cheeks, nothing but sincere welcome. Javert cleared his throat. "Ah," he said, his lips dry. "That's good." In another second, he feared that he would begin to prattle on about the weather and how hot the morning had been. He attempted a smile, suspecting it looked awkward, but Valjean's expression didn't change.

As Valjean stepped back, Javert entered the room, stooping a little to avoid striking his brow upon the door-frame. He took off his hat and cleared his throat again. "Your daughter--" He paused, uncertain how to ask if the girl was here. He had said in his note that he wished to speak with Valjean privately, but there was still a chance that the girl and their servant were still in the apartment.

To his relief, Valjean said, "Cosette and Toussaint are at the Luxembourg Gardens. After you mentioned it in your letter, we have visited several times, when she needed a rest from making bandages for-- for the boy." His voice faltered on the last, his expression clouding briefly before he smiled again. "Please, sit down. The tea will be ready in just a moment."

Javert made a small sound of agreement but didn't immediately sit. He imagined sitting in one of Valjean's chairs, watching Valjean do something so queerly domestic as preparing tea for him. The thought made him restless and even more ill at ease. Instead he prowled the antechamber, peering at the books upon the shelves. He was frowning at one of the spines, trying to read the faded title, when Valjean touched his sleeve. 

"Sorry," Valjean said when Javert startled, his smile turning crooked and apologetic. His hand dropped to his side. He held a steaming cup of tea and its saucer in his other hand. "I didn't think to ask how you take your tea, but we have some sugar and honey in the cupboard." His smile grew stronger as he added, "Cosette has a sweet tooth, you see."

Javert stared at the cup. He imagined sitting down and enduring banal, polite conversation. Doubtless Valjean would ask after Bernard and Lazare, whom Monsieur and Madame Bonnet had adopted in spirit if not legally. Or perhaps he would study the fading bruises that were still yellow and green upon Javert's face and ask after his health. 

"I take it plain," he muttered, and then shook his head, pursing his lips. His stomach twisted with nerves. "But I'm not here to discuss tea."

"No, I suppose not," Valjean said quietly, after a moment. When Javert looked up from the tea, Valjean's expression was unreadable. "What did you come to discuss?"

"I," Javert said. He stopped. Before he could stop himself, he ran a hand down his whiskers and caught his lower lip between his teeth in a nervous grimace. "Will you sit down? Please?" The request fell awkwardly off his tongue. 

Still studying him with that reserved look, Valjean obeyed, setting the cup next to its brother on the table and then sitting in the arm-chair that faced Javert. His lips parted, as though about to speak, and then he closed it, frowning faintly.

Javert quelled the urge to clasp his hands behind his back. He licked his lips. "I told you a half-truth in that first letter," he said. The words came out stilted and sharp, sounding more like an accusation than an explanation. "It was true that the doctor wouldn't let me read my books and I was bored, but that wasn't why I wrote to you."

He paused. Still Valjean said nothing, his expression neither discouraging or encouraging. Trying to soften his tone, Javert continued. "I needed to know more of your past, what you'd done all these years since you drowned, well, since it was thought you drowned at Toulon. You may be angry with me for not asking you first, but I couldn't offer you false hope, so I-- but it wasn't false hope after all--" 

"Javert," Valjean said. There was a crease in his brow now, his reserved look giving way to bewilderment and a touch of worry. "What did you do?" It wasn't an accusation, nothing like the way Valjean had looked at him when he thought he'd told the girl the truth of Valjean's past, but still Javert suppressed a wince. 

He had imagined revealing the pardon with a flourish and detailed explanation of his trials in speaking with the Mother Superior at the convent. Looking at Valjean now, the way he clutched at the arms of his chair with whitened knuckles, the absurd desire to smooth the lines from Valjean's brow and assure him that he was safe rose in him. This wasn't the time for speeches, not when Valjean looked so anxious. 

He fumbled clumsily for the paper in his coat pocket. "A pardon," he said, thrusting it at Valjean, all eloquence lost in his urgency to chase the worry from Valjean's face. "Monsieur Chabouillet helped obtain it, for he understands politics and pardons far better than I." He nearly laughed, remembering Chabouillet's astonished look and wondering,  _That convict-mayor of Montreuil-sur-Mer?_ Him _, Javert?_   

He hadn't dared to hope that Valjean would smile that dazzlingly bright smile at him in gratitude, had half-resigned himself to Valjean's anger, but he hadn't expected Valjean to recoil from the paper, staring at it as though it was a serpent poised to bite. Javert frowned. "It's genuine, I assure you. Look--" He offered the paper again.

This time Valjean took it, though his hands shook so badly he almost dropped it. He looked stricken as he read, the color draining from his face. "Javert." The name was a whisper, and Javert, baffled, bent closer to hear Valjean's strained words. "Javert, you-- you shouldn't have-- I do not deserve...." Valjean's voice caught on the last word and dwindled to silence. Rather than relieved, he looked anguished. He covered his face with one trembling hand. "I don't--"

A convulsive shudder moved through him, his shoulders flinching as though he'd been struck, and Valjean wept.

Javert stared. In all the scenarios he'd imagined, he hadn't thought that Valjean would _cry_. Each heaving sob cut deeper than Chaput's knife. He thought then of Valjean's disquiet and his flustered look whenever Javert praised him, and thought bitterly that he was a ninny. Hadn't he learned that Valjean saw good in everyone but himself?

He dropped to his knees before Valjean's chair. Prying at the crumpled pardon in Valjean's hand, he muttered, "Come, you will tear it! How would I explain to Monsieur Chabouillet that we need another copy?" Tears trickled between Valjean's thick fingers and onto his beard, but his grip loosened upon the paper.

Sticking the pardon hastily back into his pocket, Javert stared at Valjean's bowed head and tried to think. What could he say? Panic clawed at his stomach as Valjean continued to weep. He didn't know how to be gentle, in word or in action, or how to root out this anguish and undeserved self-hatred. He grabbed Valjean's free hand and squeezed it desperately, trying to get Valjean's attention.

"Valjean," he said. The name scratched his throat, but Valjean's tears didn't stop. Javert closed his eyes in frustration, pressing his cheek against Valjean's knee and grasping tighter at his hand. Against the rough fabric, he said, half-pleading, "Valjean, listen to me. Please. _Please._ Of course you deserve this pardon! How could you not? You are a good man. You help others even when it would be safer and easier to do nothing. You give money to schools and churches. You pay six months rent for a widow and her children so that they are not thrown out on the street. You saved my life when I would've arrested you. You sought to ensure me a measure of happiness when I deserved nothing but rebuke and would have thrown my life away--" 

"Stop," came the hoarse whisper above him, as much a plea as Javert's request for Valjean to listen had been, but Javert clutched stubbornly at his hand and continued. 

"Your own daughter is a reminder of every mistake I have made, how many people I have hurt over the years, and still you think I am not beyond redemption. Still you think I deserve happiness. You-- If you can want so much for me, how can I not wish the same and more for you? If a fool can deserve happiness, why not a good man?" His chest tightened. He was grateful that his expression was hidden against Valjean's knee, for it surely would have betrayed him. Roughly, he said, "You saved my life and then made it a life worth having. Let me do this for you." 

He paused as Valjean's other hand, wet with tears and still trembling, settled upon his head. "Enough," Valjean said quietly. Something in his voice kept Javert momentarily still. Valjean laughed, but there was no amusement in the sound, just a weary confusion. "I don't understand what you see when you look at me. I'm no saint." 

"Did I say you were?" Javert muttered. "A saint would not be so maddening." He was still holding Valjean's hand, he realized. Feeling like an idiot, he pressed it again. "I see a good man. I see someone who has suffered long enough. I see--" That unbearable tenderness swept over him again and he laughed noiselessly. "I see the man who saved my life twice over, and I want him to be happy. I would have offered my throat to Chaput and been glad for it, if not for you. Must I repeat that you are a good man a thousand times before you believe it?"

Valjean said nothing. Slowly, his hand smoothed over Javert's hair. "A thousand times?"

Javert risked lifting his head. There was the faintest crease at the corner of Valjean's mouth, a shadow of a bewildered smile. He ached to touch his fingers there and make the smile grow. Perhaps his face betrayed him, for Valjean flushed, his red-rimmed eyes widening. Javert licked his lips and watched Valjean's eyes dip to his mouth. Tenderness caught at him again. "If I must." Greatly daring, he pressed a kiss to Valjean's knee, and then, as Valjean shivered beneath his touch, another to the thick muscle of Valjean's thigh. "If that will convince you."  

Valjean's hand tightened in Javert's hair. Javert had a second to wonder if he'd overstepped before Valjean sighed, "Javert." The name was a question, something soft and wondering in his hoarse, tear-roughened voice. 

That ache in his chest threatened to overwhelm Javert again. He pressed a kiss to the knuckles of the hand he still held, made clumsy by the need coiled hot in his stomach. Distantly, he was certain he looked a fool, kneeling before Valjean and clutching at him so desperately. Against Valjean's knuckles, he said, "You are a good man. One. You are a good man. Two. You are--"

Valjean laughed helplessly, a swell of rough laughter that washed over Javert and swept away any misgivings. Valjean's hand slipped from Javert's hair to curl along his jaw, stroking a shaky thumb across Javert's mouth to silence him. "Enough," he said again, his voice still touched with bewilderment, but also a new sentiment, one that Javert prayed was belief. "Enough, Javert." 

Valjean's thumb touched his lips again, and Javert almost bit at callused skin. His breath shuddered and hitched in his chest. He searched Valjean's expression and found only a flustered eagerness, all disbelief quelled or at least well-hidden. Slowly, he said, "Are you convinced that you deserve your pardon then? That you deserve happiness? I had thought you would need at least a hundred repetitions--"

Valjean slid his hand to the nape of Javert's neck and bent down to kiss him. He kissed with a hot urgency, smiling against Javert's lips. "I still don't know if I deserve it," he said when they ended the kiss, his breath rough against Javert's cheek. His fingers fluttered against Javert's neck and stroked the ruffled hair there as he added, soft like a confession, "But I-- but I am grateful for it nonetheless."

The slow, quietly pleased smile that spread across Valjean's face was irresistible. Javert kissed him and drank down Valjean's sighs until he grew lightheaded. A thought struck him. It was his turn to laugh helplessly. He shook his head at Valjean's questioning look. "You are more potent than anything I drank at those wine-shops," he said, and wished to bite his tongue at Valjean's expression. Warm with embarrassment, he muttered, "That is-- I mean--"

"Javert," Valjean said. When Javert looked at him again, Valjean's eyes were warm, his expression aglow with unfeigned happiness. Valjean touched his cheek and smiled so sweetly that it hurt. "Thank you." Then a crease furrowed his brow and he flushed. "But oh, you've been kneeling all this time! Surely you can't be comfortable."

"I'm fine," Javert said. At Valjean's frown, he sighed and stood, one hand on Valjean's knee for balance. Valjean's hand slid to cup his elbow. When Javert straightened, there was a heat in Valjean's eyes that dried out Javert's mouth. He was acutely aware of his hand still on Valjean's knee, and the strength in Valjean's hand where it lay upon his arm.

He swallowed, thickly. When was Valjean's daughter due to return from the Luxembourg Gardens? Javert found he didn't care. He kissed Valjean again, kissed him until they were both breathing roughly against the other's lips and Valjean clutched at his elbow.

When he drew back, Valjean's face was flushed, his expression wiped clean of anything but desire. Javert looked at him, marveling. It seemed a miracle that he had gone from the gutter to this moment. He still didn't understand how Valjean could want this, only knew with a bone-deep certainty that Valjean _did_. Incredulous joy welled so sharp and strong in him that he nearly couldn't bear it. He caught his breath, overwhelmed.

"Valjean." How often had he spoken that name in bitterness? How often had he cursed that name? Now it was sweeter than any wine.

Again he said, "Valjean," tasting it, and then again, " _Valjean_ ," until at last Valjean laughed and kissed him silent. 


End file.
